


The Thief of Skystead

by first_place_ace



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, pokemonpov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 78,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/first_place_ace/pseuds/first_place_ace
Summary: Azazel has been a thief for nearly a decade, always succeeding with ease and never being caught despite relentless pursuits. But when the general comes into town, he sets his sights on the heist of his lifetime: stealing  from the most powerful man he'll ever meet. His efforts quickly land him in more trouble than he accounted for, and every attempt to weasel his way out of the mess he's made is met with more resistance. All he wanted was a good steal, but now he's found himself with a band of murderers on his trail and the general's insufferable, rich fiancé on his case. Which will kill him first: the killers, or one snobby brat?





	1. Fateful Encounter

Azazel is good at stealing. Really, really good. Well, that and knitting, but that isn’t relevant to the task at hand. Walking through Skystead Town presents a lot of opportunities to snatch something valuable. Especially in the summer, when all the rich folk are here at their summer homes for the season. They’re the perfect targets for him: loaded and arrogant. They’re so self-absorbed and snooty that Azazel can swipe just about anything from them with ease. They think no one can touch them. 

An elderly delcatty shrieks, high and shrill, wailing, “My necklace!” Sure enough, the string of pearls perpetually around the neck of any rich wife is suddenly missing from her person. Fretting, she pats herself down and her husband practically dances in search of the missing pearls. When they realize the jewelry is nowhere in sight, she cries, “Thief! Thief!” 

The bustling town square erupts into chaos. The rich tourists flounder and grip tightly to their valuables and the officers leap into action. But the locals simply roll their eyes and spew strings of curses at yet another heist these bumbling officers won’t be able to solve. 

“We know it’s you, Azazel,” a merchant accuses as he casually strolls by. 

“Who, me?” He replies, feigning innocence. He tucks the necklace into his knapsack full of everything else he’s stolen today and continues on his merry way. 

It’s a lucrative business, being a thief. But only if you’re as good as Azazel, who’s stolen the diamond off of a ring still on a woman’s finger. He’s also stolen a wad of one-thousand dollars, a rare coin collection on display in a large crowd, and candy from a baby—just for fun. Needless to say, he isn’t just good at it: he’s the best. And unless the law finally catches him, he’s not stopping. 

“You there! Stop!” An officer shouts, scampering after him. He looks over his shoulder, offers a nonchalant wave and a lazy smile, and continues on his way. The officer catches up to him, scrambling to block his path. “I said, ‘halt’!” 

“Oh, did you?” He asks, smiling with the slightest air of smug self-satisfaction. “So sorry officer, I couldn’t hear with the missus over there screaming.” 

The delcatty, exasperatingly, continues to scream. This doesn’t bother Azazel in the slightest. 

“Open your bag,” the officer, a watchog, demands. “I know you stole it.” 

Azazel puts a hand to his chest in surprise. “Officer Nigel! Why would I do such a thing?” 

“Because you’re a wily, crafty banette and you’ve been thieving in this town for over a decade!” 

That’s true. “That’s entirely untrue.” 

“You’re right, maybe it’s been more than a decade!” The officer bursts, his face red with excitement and rage. Then, he pauses. “Er, how old are you again?” 

“Twenty-five as of last week.” 

“Oh, happy birthday.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Getting close to thirty, you may want to think of settling down and getting married, and—gah! You did it again!” Nigel yelps, gripping the fur on the top of his head like he wants to tear it out. Pointing feverishly at Azazel, he cries, “You always do that, you always weasel your way out of everything!” 

Azazel smiles pleasantly. 

“Well, not this time!” Officer Nigel declares, snatching Azazel’s satchel from his hands. Azazel lets him. Holding the bag above his head triumphantly, he says, “This time, I’ve got you!” 

“Actually, you’ve got my lunch.” 

“Your… huh?” 

Officer Nigel tears into the bag. Opening it reveals it is loaded with nothing but berries. Frantically, the officer shoves the food aside, desperately rummaging through the fruit. 

“Would you like some?” Azazel asks. 

“Blast!” Nigel exclaims, shoving the bag at him. “I really thought I had you that time.” 

Azazel slings the bag over his shoulder. “Best of luck finding that nasty thief. I’m sure the missus over there won’t be too pleased if you don’t catch them.” 

Nigel’s eyes widen when he remembers the rich woman throwing a tantrum. With a emphatic groan of agony, he trudges back to the scene of the crime. Azazel resumes his path, grinning to himself. He takes a berry out of his bag to eat. He makes sure to remove the individual pearl he shoved into it before popping the berry into his mouth. 

Skystead is a beautiful town. Even Azazel can appreciate an elegant arch stretching over a cobblestone road, but perhaps he appreciates it for a different reason. The beautiful architecture attracts rich people in droves. That, and the perfect view of the ocean from the cliffside. Architecture and a view are practically a snob magnet. What he enjoys most about the town is the bar and the inn. The latter of which he’s headed to right now. He’s sure they’re expecting him there, too. He always drops in after a heist. 

The main street continues around the bend, but Azazel branches off to a brief dirt road to reach the entrance of the inn. Felicia’s Inn, the sign reads. It should also say, The most popular place in town, but Felicia’s too modest for that. He pushes the door open.  
The inn lobby is filled with tables and chairs, but there’s still people standing around. This place has become such a social center that more people come than can find a place to sit. That doesn’t bother everyone too much. They’re here for company or food, seating is just an extra bonus. Azazel always manages to find a seat, though. He’s got a few guys on the inside. 

“Azazel!” 

Through the crowded room, he sees a lopunny enthusiastically waving an arm at him. He returns the wave indolently, sauntering over to where she sits on the staircase that leads up to the guests’ rooms. When he sits beside her, she punches his arm. Knowing Gunnora well enough to know that’s just her way of saying hello, he replies, “What’s up.” 

“Oh, nothing much, just preparing for the general’s wedding!” She exclaims, practically vibrating with giddy energy.

“Wow. You’re still excited about that.”

“Of course I am, the general’s been my hero since, like, ever,” she states, and he nods, mouthing the next words along by heart: “He’s wicked powerful and super regal and just amazing in every way!”

Azazel rests his chin in his hand as he patiently listens to Gunnora ramble about the town’s new favorite buzz: the general’s upcoming wedding. Everyone’s going nuts over it because the general (the great, the esteemed, etc. etc.) decided to have his wedding and subsequent honeymoon here in Skystead. He’s even ordered a summer estate be built here in case he and his soon-to-be spouse wanted visit in the future. Everyone’s been working non-stop for months to ensure that the town is in tip top shape for the general’s arrival: which, should be happening any day now. Probably.

No one in town has done more to prepare than Felicia, Gunnora’s mother. As the owner of the only inn in town, this is the only place for all the general’s rich wedding guests to stay. Azazel hasn’t seen Felicia sit down all year. He’s only caught glimpses of her racing around the inn and jubilantly dusting, decorating, and dreaming about the finished product. Occasionally, she’ll pause in her lightning speed bouncing to offer him a cookie. Like, right now. 

“Cookie?” She asks, beaming down at him with a smile that’s the spitting image of Gunnora’s. If Azazel hadn’t known her half his life, he might mistake her for Gunnora’s older sister. Even as she gets on in age and grows a little plumper, she’s no less beautiful than the years before. “They’re baked fresh; I’ve been making tons with the upcoming wedding!” 

Azazel accepts a cookie from the basket she offers him. “Thanks, Felicia. Your cookies are the best.” 

Her ears twitch forward to cover her face. “Oh, you’re too sweet. Have as many as you like!” 

She places the basket in front of him, hopping away to see to some other task. Azazel gladly takes the basket in his lap, swatting Gunnora’s hand away when she tries to sneak one. She only has to punch him once to convince him to let her have her way. 

As Gunnora digs into her mother’s cookies, Azazel opens his satchel full of berries. Gunnora nearly dives into those, too, before he catches her hand to stop her. Pulling out a berry, he splits it open to pop out the pearl inside. Dropping the pearl into the cookie basket, he hands her the berry she’d been aiming for. 

“Azazel, seriously?” She sighs, taking the berry with significantly less enthusiasm. Tossing it into her mouth, she whispers, “How many people did you steal from this time?” 

“On the way here,” he says, transferring his loot to the cookie basket, “About four or five.” 

“Azazel.” 

“What?” 

“You can’t keep doing this, man,” she insists, waiting for him to remove the pearl from another berry so she can eat it. “If Officer Nigel ever wises up and calls me in for questioning about you, you know I’ll have to tell him the truth.” 

“Why?” He wonders, knowing the answer but asking anyways just to be a little shit. 

“Because,” she says, “I’m a soldier in the general’s army, now. It’s my duty.” 

“What’s your duty say about where snitches end up?” 

She sighs. “In ditches.” 

“In ditches. Besides, you could never turn in lil’ ol’ me. Your heart wouldn’t allow it.” 

She grins in spite of herself. “I’d turn you in for a stale loaf of bread.” 

“Wow, a whole loaf? I’d turn myself in for that.” 

The door bursts open and slams against the wall, but the inn is too loud and busy for anyone to notice. Storming in and making a beeline straight to Azazel is Officer Nigel. And he does not look pleased. 

“Uh, dude, you might wanna go,” Gunnora murmurs to him, her eyes shifting from the officer back to him. “He’s really got it out for you today.” 

He leans back, closes his satchel, and kicks his feet back. “Nah.” 

Officer Nigel practically charges right at him. He’s promptly flattened like a pancake when a familiar conkeldurr unintentionally steps in his way to wave at Azazel. Azazel waves back. On the ground and under the conkeldurr’s foot, Officer Nigel twitches and turns blue. 

“Dad!” Gunnora exclaims, pointing to the watchog. The conkeldurr, Fulk, looks down. Upon seeing the squashed rat, he nearly dances to get off him.  
“So sorry, Officer,” Fulk hastily apologizes, helping Nigel up. Nigel wheezes for a few seconds, his skin turning to its normal shade again. Then, it immediately turns red with rage. 

“You!” Nigel shouts, marching over to Azazel. Azazel just raises his eyebrows as Nigel snatches his satchel away. The officer rummages through it, keeping his eyes locked on Azazel’s as he declares, “As I was getting yelled at by the delcatty, I discovered where you’ve been hiding the things you’ve stolen!” Snatching a berry out of the bag, he proclaims, “You’ve been sticking them in the berries!” 

“That’s way too devious and creative for me to think of,” he replies. “Have you ever considered a career in writing crime novels?” 

“I’ll prove it! Look at this!” Nigel states, ripping open a berry. Nothing pops out. Gunnora and Fulk share a glance. Azazel sits, still comfortably sprawled out. Nigel stares at the empty berry, his expression stuck in a smile that’s no longer quite as triumphant. Slowly, juice drips onto the floor. 

“You can eat that, if you want,” Azazel offers, holding out the basket where his loot hides under a layer of cookies. “Cookie?” 

“Blast,” Nigel mutters, munching on the berry in defeat. “I thought for sure that’s what it was.” After a moment of glum deliberation, he takes a cookie as well. 

“You’ll catch them eventually,” Fulk encourages, patting his shoulder and throwing Azazel a knowing look. Azazel simply bites into another cookie. 

“I better,” Nigel says, “No one wants any thieves lurking around during the general’s wedding.” 

After a few minutes of comforting Officer Nigel and hearing about his deep-rooted fears of failure that stem back to his childhood, they send him on his merry way to chase after a thief he’ll never catch. Unlike Azazel, Gunnora and Fulk are not as amused by this. 

“Azazel,” Fulk scolds in a tone that’s strikingly similar to Gunnora’s, “You’re going to drive that poor man half mad trying to catch you, and you’re going to drive me half to death with worry. When are you going to stop all this nonsense?” 

Azazel shrugs carelessly. “When it stops being fun. And when it stops paying the bills.” 

“There are other enjoyable ways to make a living,” Fulk reminds, stroking his beard. Azazel slumps against the stairs, disgruntled, knowing that Fulk is winding up for one of his famous lectures full of boring old man wisdom. “I used to think being a soldier was all I wanted in life. But now, working at the dojo and helping out at my wife’s inn, I realize I had been misguided in my youth. You see…” 

Azazel pipes up just to get Fulk off his train of thought, hoping to avoid this spiel. “Funny, now Gunnora’s a soldier. Guess she’s following in someone’s footsteps.” 

“Yeah, the general’s!” She leaps to her feet, full of vigor and enthusiasm. Then, sheepishly, she says, “Um, and you too, Dad! ...But mostly the general. Sorry.”

“Damn. Brutal,” Azazel remarks, grinning. Fulk laughs good-naturedly.

“Come on, can you blame me?” Gunnora demands, her eyes shining like a child’s. “He’s just so strong and unbeatable and imposing! I hope I can meet him before his wedding. Gosh, how cool would it be if he’d actually give me some advice? I could be a great general just like him someday!”  
Fulk says, “You can be a great general without emulating him.” 

Their conversation comes to a halt as soon as they hear two pans banging together. In the center of the room, Felicia stands and holds the pots high in the air. With everyone’s attention now on her, she smiles bashfully and announces, “The general’s personal attendant is here to see the inn and approve it for the wedding guests. Please give him—Pepin, was it?—please give Pepin a warm welcome!” 

A staravia takes her spot in the center of the room, a long list tucked between two feathers on his wing. Clearing his throat, he holds the list up and reads, 

“The general honorably and humbly requests this list of necessities be provided at the venue in which his wedding guests will be staying. He expresses his sincerest gratitude for the kind hospitality of the people of Skystead for seeing to his respectful appeals. 

“Firstly: he asks that those who are not wedding guests or inn employees will refrain from entering or loitering around the inn forthwith, until the time of the wedding guests’ departure. Crowding the guests’ venue with non-participants will only serve to suffocate and strain the guests.” 

The people murmur to each other, slightly put off. The inn is the town hotspot. Where else will they go? 

“Second: he has provided his own decorations for the venue. No other decorations will be necessary.” Pepin takes a glance around at all of the colorful streamers that have been so dutifully hung. To Felicia, he snips, “These will all have to be taken down.” 

Embarrassed, her ears twitch in front of her slightly. She meekly nods. 

Returning his eyes to the paper, he reads, “Thirdly: he has provided his own beverages, meals, and delicacies to be given to the guests. Under no circumstances should the guests be eating anything that the inn provides. It will most likely not match up to their more… refined tastes.” 

All the hard work Felicia’s done is being torn down by one measly list. The whole room deflates, their bodies sagging. The wedding swelled them with excitement, like a balloon, and now they’ve met a needle. 

Azazel glances down at the basket of cookies in his lap. After discreetly transferring his loot back into his satchel, he takes a cookie in hand.  
“Fourth—gah!” Pepin cries, his wings flapping, flustered after being hit in the head with a cookie. 

“Boo,” Azazel jeers, throwing another cookie at him. 

Gunnora snorts, hiding her face in her hands. Fulk shoots him a scolding glare, but behind the counter, the rest of his children—all nine of them—burst into loud, boisterous laughter. Felicia purses her lips to avoid giggling, waggling a finger disapprovingly at him. 

He’s done his job, though, and soon enough, the entire inn is booing. Nobody in this town likes being bossed around, especially by an outsider. Especially when it comes to the general’s wedding. No one’s more excited for this event than Skystead. In their minds, they’ve got somewhat of an emotional right to provide for the wedding the way they’d like to. 

Felicia tries banging her pots together to quiet the inn down again, but the people are too rowdy this time around. They shout over the sound of the pans, demanding to speak to the general themselves. The general will understand, the general wouldn’t shut us out like this, the general will fix this! Azazel suspects the general couldn’t care less about them, but he’s not going to step on anyone’s toes saying that. Especially not Gunnora’s. She looks about ready to punt that bird straight through the ceiling for even insinuating the general dislikes their set up. 

Pepin is futilely shielding himself from a barrage of cookies and other inn provided foods when someone swoops in with a blanket to cover him. Then, they turn to the crowd and glare. Immediately, the mob freezes, holding their fists full of food in midair as if they’ve been strung up. Even Azazel pauses. This stranger, a mismagius, has a sharp coldness about him. Like ice. If someone were to strike him, Azazel suspects that their hand would suffer frostbite. 

“You all would assault a personal attendant simply carrying out his duty?” The mismagius demands. “Would you similarly assault a mail carrier? A baker? A doctor?” 

“Depends,” Azazel says, “Are they an asshole?” 

The mismagius fixes him with a frigid stare. Azazel returns the look with nonchalant indifference. 

With a single motion from the mismagius, the crowd parts in an instant. They almost scramble away from him, as if he’s untouchable. He cuts through the tense air toward Azazel like he intends to slice him in half. When he reaches him, he looks down on him from where he hovers in place.

Fulk steps forward to apologize for him. “Azazel here is a bit of a wily one, but he means no harm—” Without looking, the mismagius raises a hand to silence him. Fulk begrudgingly closes his mouth. 

“You ought to be ashamed,” the mismagius proclaims, staring Azazel down, “For making a mob out of this room. You carelessly incite violence to serve your petty ego, and you drag everyone into the fray. Have you no sense of right?” 

“No,” Azazel replies, “I can sense both my right and my left.” 

The mismagius’ mouth twitches downward into a stern frown. “I suppose you find yourself funny.” 

“Hilarious, if I’m being honest.” 

“There is nothing funny about bringing danger upon another,” he declares. His yellow eyes burn under the dark shadows cast by the hat-like extension of his head. “If you’re half a decent man, you will humble yourself to Pepin and apologize for what you’ve done.” 

Leaning his head slightly to glance past the mismagius, he looks to the frazzled bird hiding under a blanket. Pepin’s face drips with some juicy food. 

“Sorry,” Azazel says, “That you’re an asshole and only a worse asshole is willing to defend you.” 

The mismagius’ eyes flare with rage, and a chorus of frightened murmurs rise up from the room. Felicia looks ready to die of a heart attack. Gunnora’s mouth is hung open. Even Pepin looks stunned by Azazel’s audacity. 

It’s Fulk who hastily steps in to mediate. To the mismagius, he says, “Please, allow one of my children to escort you and your attendant home. If you leave the list with us, I assure that we will follow every request to the letter.” 

The mismagius turns those cold eyes on Fulk. For a moment, it seems that he’ll deny Fulk’s generous offer in favor of continuing the fight. Instead, he sharply turns away and says, “And keep him out of my sight.” 

“Of course,” Fulk says, lowering his head obediently. Quickly, he motions for his second eldest to walk the man home. 

The mismagius stalks away, followed by Fulk’s son. “Pepin, we’re off.” 

The three of them leave, everyone’s eyes trailing after them until they’ve disappeared. A tense minute passes, no one daring to talk. It’s as if the mismagius is still glaring at them. But slowly, gradually, like a squirtle coming out of their shell, the people begin to talk again. When the room has returned to its usual noise, Gunnora hastily sits and punches him in the arm. It’s not a ‘hello’ punch. 

“Dude! What on Earth are you thinking?!”

“Honestly? I’m thinking if that mismagius guy wasn’t such a stick in the mud, he’d be pretty hot.” 

She punches him again. “You cannot say that. Seriously, do you know who that guy is?” 

He arches a brow at her. “Uh. Should I?” 

“Should you?!” She cries, throwing her hands into the air incredulously. “He’s the general’s fiancé, Alistair Laurembert!” 

“Huh. I guess I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the wedding,” he remarks, handing Fulk the empty cookie basket when he gestures for it. When Fulk leaves, he adds, “I thought the general was an older guy. Like, your dad’s age.” 

“He is.” 

“He is? Isn’t his fiancé a little young for him?” 

“You need to be worrying about yourself right now,” she states, serious. “If the general finds out about the mess you started here, he’ll be furious. Offending him or someone in his wedding company could be grounds for challenging you to a duel of honor.” 

“That would be hilarious.” 

She’s about to snap something else, but the door opens and hushes the room once more. A cold gust of wind rushes through the room, but not cold like the mismagius from before. It’s an invigorating kind of chill, a cold that sends shivers of energy through the room. Standing in the entryway is a tall, sturdily built, impressive figure. This time, this is someone even Azazel can recognize. It’s not like Gunnora doesn’t have a million newspaper clippings of this very empoleon in her bedroom. 

“The general,” he remarks casually. 

“The general!” Gunnora squeals, covering her mouth with both hands. 

Immediately, the room erupts into praise and shouts of excitement. Everyone is torn between clearing a path for him or pushing their way front and center to humbly greet him. But no one dares to get too close. He’s a regal figure; he’s practically glowing amidst the common inn. The crown-like structure on his face glimmers in the light, golden. Azazel can see why people go crazy over him. He’s an unattainable ideal. 

He greets everyone who approaches him, benevolent and courteous. Some mothers hold up their babies for him to kiss. It almost makes Azazel believe that the general could be as good as Gunnora imagines, and that he might even be here to tell Felicia that she can continue on with all of her dedicated work. Realistically, he figures the general is here because his fiancé whined to him about the people throwing food at a bird. 

Sure enough, the general’s eyes find his. 

“I can’t breathe,” Gunnora wheezes, and Azazel pats her back. “It’s—I can’t breathe—it’s—it’s—”

“Take your time.” 

“It’s the general!” She wails, kicking her legs in the air from sheer excitement. Clutching her hands to her heaving chest, she utters, “I can’t move. I think I’m dying.” A wide grin slowly spreads on her face. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him?” 

“I will—no, I can’t—no, I have to!” She mutters to herself, her aspiration and insecurity debating with each other. Finally, she turns to Azazel and pleads, “If I go to him, will you come with me?”

“Of course. Although, I think he’s headed this way.” 

Gunnora’s attention snaps straight to the general, who’s gradually making his way toward them. He’s stopped, rather often, by people asking for advice or wondering about his favorite meals. Graciously and patiently, he answers every question, his eyes flicking to Azazel every once and awhile like he might flee. Azazel sits back on the step, waiting with Gunnora for him to arrive. 

Watching him slowly meander through the crowd is unsurprisingly boring. He can only stare at one person for so long before his attention starts to wander, even if he is the most impressive person in this room. At least, he has the most notoriety. The greatest reputation. The highest profession. Probably the richest, too.  
That’s the part that wakes Azazel up again. 

He glances down at his satchel filled with stolen riches, then back at the general. Somehow, the sparkle in his loot seems to dull. It’s all been soaked up by the general. 

How much is the junk in his bag worth? A couple hundred? That’s probably the cost of a dishrag in the general’s estate.  
His eyes drift to the satchel slung on the general’s shoulder. It’s closed, secured tightly. How much cash does he carry on him? What other valuables would a rich, untouchable general walk around with? 

Well. Only one way to find out, isn’t there? 

The general approaches them, and Gunnora immediately leaps to her feet, her hand to her head in a rigid salute. 

“Gadet Cunnora at your service, sir!” She practically yells. Then, blushing profusely, she corrects herself, “Er, I mean, Cadet Gunnora! At your service. Um, sir.”  
He nods his head to her, saying, “At ease, soldier.” 

She lowers her hand, trying to fight the giddy smile creeping on her face. 

“You’re stationed at Fort Norwich, I presume?” He asks. She nods rigorously. “A wonderful fort for anyone who lives in Skystead. It’s very close to home.” 

“Y-yes sir! That’s why I like it, too,” she replies, her feet shifting anxiously. “I’m very close to my family and friends.” 

“Is this one of your friends?” The general asks, turning his attention to Azazel. The general probably expects him to rise, but Azazel’s not a soldier. He’ll just sit on this stair where he’s quite comfortable, thank you very much. 

Gunnora must not be content with that, because she shoots an arm down at him and yanks him up in the air. He floats and rubs his arm, frowning at her disdainfully. “Yes, this is my best friend, Azazel.” 

“Azazel,” the general repeats. “I believe I’ve heard of you.” 

“I believe I’ve heard of you, too, at some point or another.” 

“I’ve heard you’re a bit of trouble,” he remarks, “From a friend in the area and from my fiancé.” 

“They’re not wrong.” 

“Officer Nigel and my friend also informed me that you,” he says, “Are from Beggar’s Hole.” 

For the first time all night, Azazel is caught off guard. 

Silence interjects itself between them. 

“...Yeah,” he eventually responds, pretending not to feel Gunnora’s sympathetic, comforting hand on his shoulder, “I am.” 

“It’s a tragedy what happened there,” the general laments, and Azazel manages a half nod. Regarding Azazel with something almost like hesitance, he asks, “Do you… remember what happened?” 

He remembers what happened, just like the rest of the world knows what happened: everyone died. But that’s about where the recollection stops for him. His only memories of the event are haphazard, splintered fragments. He remembers Beggar’s Hole, before the incident and as the flames swallowed it whole. He remembers his shanty house, before and after it was smashed into the ground. He remembers his people, hardworking and alive, then dead and soaked with each other’s blood.  
He remembers feelings he associates with the incident. Fear. Rage. Confusion. Anguish. But he doesn’t remember who brought that hell down on them; all he can remember about them is a shadow. A big, looming shadow that stood over him as a child and bashed his mother’s head in. 

“I don’t remember,” he admits, even though he hates to. Sometimes, he’ll have a dream, and for that instant, he’ll remember everything, but it all washes away when morning comes. And he hates himself for it. “I guess it’ll just be one of those unsolved mysteries.” 

Gunnora rubs his arm. 

The general regards him skeptically, as if he would lie about something like this. As if he wouldn’t have hunted the perpetrator down himself if he’d known their identity. Then, the general nods solemnly, saying, “Very tragic indeed.” 

Gunnora doesn’t argue when Azazel excuses himself from the room. 

He returns after a half an hour, surprised to see the general still milling about the lobby and chatting with townsfolk. His hand is placed casually on his stuffed satchel. The inn has since cleared out a bit, and Gunnora is now sitting at a table with some of her younger siblings. Azazel joins them, his eyes fixated on the general’s bag.  
“Hey,” Gunnora says, “You okay?” 

“Fine. What do you think the general’s got in that bag?” 

“Money and stuff,” one of Gunnora’s siblings replies, her chin on the table like she’s bored. “I saw him open it to pay for a drink.” 

“Huh.” Azazel studies the bag a moment longer. Turning to the girl, he asks, “How much, would you guess, does he have in there?” 

“Oh, lots and lots,” she insists. “Like, maybe a bajillion quadrillion million dollars.” 

Azazel nods. He keeps his eyes on the satchel. “Huh.” 

The table falls silent. 

“Dude,” Gunnora begins, her voice wary. “Don’t get any ideas.” 

“I’ve got ideas, Gunnora.” 

“Well, stop them!” 

“Can’t. It’s too late now.” 

“Azazel, no!” 

“I’m gonna do it.” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

He turns to her, grinning. “I’m gonna rob the general.” 

She groans, slamming her head on the table. 

He hops off his stool, strolling casually over to the general. He ignores Gunnora as she hisses for him to return. The general, currently, is talking with one of the few rich natives of Skystead town, Sir Eustace VonBauld. He’s a snooty swalot who owns an art museum in town that all the rich tourists frequent. When Azazel arrives, Eustace grimaces at him like he’s a stain on the floor. Azazel smiles and waves. 

“Ah, Azazel,” the general says. “Hello again.” 

“Hello to you too. Whatever your name is.” 

Eustace nearly turns red with rage. “Whatever his nam—this is General Thurston Rambugnon III, the greatest military genius of the century! It would do you some good to show a little respect, you no-good thief!” 

Azazel shrugs. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m a thief. It’s really unfair. It’s not like anyone’s ever seen me steal anything.” 

“I know it’s you!” Eustace bursts, jumping up and down, about to blow a gasket. “I know you stole the glass Articuno from my legendary glass figurine collection!” 

“Easy there, old friend,” General Thurston says, calming Eustace’s tantrum. While he’s not looking, Azazel swiftly unlatches his satchel. He glances back at Gunnora, who’s violently shaking her head. He grins. “Why don’t you head to my estate for some tea? My fiancé will be there to greet you, and I will be following you shortly.” 

Eustace consents, grumbling several colorful complaints about Azazel as he harrumphs out the door. When he leaves, the general turns to him. “Was there something you needed of me?” 

“Only a question or two,” he replies, carefully keeping his eyes away from the satchel. “I was wondering what the day of your wedding is, it’s slipped my mind.” 

“That’s because we don’t have a planned date yet, but it should be within the season,” he replies. “Why?” 

“Oh, it’s just a big deal around town. Everyone’s excited. By the way, I couldn’t help but notice that our bags look similar,” He says, lifting his own bag up for the general to see. General Thurston's eyes follow the bag in Azazel’s hold as he sneaks a hand into the general’s bag. “Mine is a gift from a friend, Gunnora actually. Remember her?” 

“Yes, of course,” General Thurston says, turning his gaze to Gunnora and offering her a smile. She forces one in return, gripping the edge of her stool in anxiety. Azazel’s hand wraps around something made of paper. Covertly, he slips it out before the general returns his eyes to him. “She’ll be quite the soldier someday.” 

“You should tell her that,” he says, slinging his bag around his shoulder and sneaking whatever he stole into it. “She’d probably faint on the spot.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” he responds, smiling proudly. He can almost hear Gunnora screaming inside her head. “Well, I’ll see you around, General. Wouldn’t want to keep you from tea time.” 

“Yes, wouldn’t want to keep my old friend waiting,” he says. “I best be off.” 

Azazel waves him goodbye, returning to his seat with Gunnora and the others. They all lean in to see what he stole. Azazel grins, relishing in the suspense for a minute. Then, with deliberate pauses, he slowly draws his newest steal from the bag. 

They all, subsequently, stare at the absolute worst thing Azazel has ever stolen. 

A picture of the general’s fiancé, unsmiling. 

“Ugh,” he moans, dropping his head on the table. Gunnora laughs. “I don’t want this.” 

“Too bad, so sad,” she teases. 

He looks up from the table to see the general just stepping out the door. He leaps to his feet, racing to him before he leaves. 

“Mister General, sir!” He calls. General Thurston turns. Handing him the picture, he says, “I think you dropped this.” 

“Oh, heavens,” General Thurston exclaims, gratefully taking the picture. “Thank you dearly. I wouldn't want to lose something as precious as this.” 

Yeah. Precious. Azazel is pretty sure looking at that picture for too long could make a man wither up and die. 

****

As he walks home through the dark, empty streets, he whistles to himself and rummages through the loot he piled together today. He managed to swipe the wallet of a posh looking man as he left the inn, so all together, he’s had a pretty lucrative day. But it’s not enough for him. Now more than ever, he wants to snag something from the general. Partially because the payout is sure to be great, but mostly because he wants the challenge. After tonight’s failure, he’s determined to steal something from the general before he leaves the island. 

The farther he walks, the more the town begins to change. The elegant architecture and quaint scenery begin to fade. What takes their place is something much less impressive. Shanty huts and dirty streets lie before him, just past the giant stone wall and iron fence he walks through. This slummier, less attractive part of town is what locals call the Underside. No one wanders through these parts of town, especially at night, unless they live here. Like Azazel, for instance. 

It’s a dangerous part of town, where all the thugs and vandals lurk. Other than Azazel’s bouts of theft, it’s really the only source of crime in the town. It’s an entirely new social sphere compared to that of the Topside of town. Topside, people are relatively convivial. Underside, if you look at someone the wrong way, they’ll cut you. Right now, Azazel is running through a list of Underside folks he’s run into lately, trying to remember if he’s gotten on anyone’s bad side. He can’t recall doing anything to any of them; that would be suicide. But he must’ve done something, because someone is definitely following him right now. 

He hasn’t turned around to see who it is. Quite frankly, doing that would probably be a pretty bad move. He’s not eager for confrontation with some delinquent looking for a fight. Besides, they’re probably hiding in the shadows. Glancing back wouldn’t get him any information, it would just get him killed. 

He considers circling around and going back to Felicia’s Inn and staying the night there. He knows they’d let him, they’ve told him over and over that they'd love to have him live with them, but he can’t lead his stalker right to them. Who knows how dangerous this person is. For now, all he can do is walk home, lock the door, and hope for the best. 

His house (if you could call it that) is coming up on the side of the street. It’s a small shack that looks just as rusty and rundown as the rest of the street, but hey, it’s home. Pulling his keys out of his bag, he unlocks the door. He tries to catch a glimpse of his stalker through the corner of his eye. He sees nothing but shadows and rolling fog. 

Opening the door, he enters and locks it. He pauses, stands still by the door, and listens. Outside, the only noise is the distant hooting of bar patrons and the occasional shouts of gangs congregating in the alleyways. No footsteps. Stepping away from the door, he places his satchel on the ground and turns to face the small room, which is the entirety of his house. There’s a bed. An icebox. A water pump and a bathroom area surrounded by curtains. You know, the works. He can’t imagine this person following him would want to rob him, of all people. Although, it would be ironic. Could he rob his robbed stuff back? Probably. 

He only gets a second to wonder about this before he’s attacked. 

He’s struck from behind, thrown into the far wall. Immediately, he rolls to his feet, coming face to face with the angriest butterfree he’s ever seen. Strangely, the door behind her is still shut and locked. How did she get in? 

She swoops right at his face, and he phases into nothing just in time to have her run face first into a window. When he rematerializes, she’s already reoriented herself and is charging him again. She tackles him, gripping him with her stubby, sharp little claws. He grapples with her, grabbing her wings as they beat painfully against him. Falling on his back, he rolls into his descent and throws her off. Flipping to his feet, he spins around to meet her next attack. 

She’s gone. 

His arms drop only slightly. He whirls around, raking his eyes over every inch of the room. The door is still latched shut. The window is, too. She’s nowhere to be found.

“What the hell…?” He utters. 

Suddenly, his legs are swiped out from under him. He hits the ground, hard, falling under a croagunk. She draws her fist back, preparing to bash his head in. Immediately, he sinks into the ground. She punches the floor, denting it. 

He pops up from the floor behind her, kicking her into a wall. She stumbles but regains her balance, leaping high into the air to strike down on him. Her fist pummels into his chest, slamming him to the floor. He rolls out of the way just in time to avoid another punch, but he’s not quick enough to slip through her fingers entirely. She snatches him, hurling him into the side of his bed. It might’ve been a soft landing if it wasn’t such a shitty bed. 

He whirls around and tries to ignore the spinning in his head. He’s prepared to handle another strike from the croagunk, only, she’s not the one charging at him. Out of nowhere, a cranidos barrels toward him, her head down and aimed straight for his chest.

Jumping into the air, he flies to the ceiling and puts his feet against the wall, pushing himself to the other side of the room. The cranidos crashes into the wall but regroups herself aggravatingly fast. Seeing him near the ceiling, she scowls and lunges into the air. She’s not quite tall enough to reach him, but that croagunk might have the leg power to grab him. That butterfree could snatch him, too. 

With the moment he has, his eyes dart around the room. Where are they? 

By the time he returns his gaze to the cranidos, she’s gone. A vine shoots out of the air and snaps around his ankle, yanking him down. He slams into the floor and is immediately pounced on by a bayleef, who has his leg in a vice grip with her vine. She raises her front legs, smashing them down on his chest.

Relentlessly, the bayleef thrashes him with her front hooves, nearly kicking his head clean off his body. That would be a pain to stitch back on, and impossible to fight without. He swipes at her face, scratching her eyes. She howls in pain, staggering back. Kicking her in the stomach, he sends her flying into a wall. Now on his feet, he grips the leaf-like appendage on her head and tugs it, dragging her forward and throwing her against the floor. 

Raising a fist, he prepares to bring it down on her throat. Instead, just in the nick of time, she lashes him with a vine, striking him right across the eyes. 

Momentarily blinded, he stumbles back and forces himself to phase into the floor. He has to focus all of his energy in remaining under until he can see again, fighting the laws of physics that demand he immediately be ejected. When he can see again, he rushes back to the surface, aiming a punch at where he last left the bayleef.  
It doesn’t make contact with anything. Instead, the moment he comes up, he’s grabbed by two large hands and electrocuted. 

He writhes his way out of the electabuzz’s grasp, sizing her up from across the room. At this point, he doesn’t even need to check to see if the bayleef is gone. He already knows it’s just the two of them, now. 

“Where are all of your little friends?” He demands, on his toes. “They didn’t just leave you here, did they?” 

Whoever these murderous ladies are, they’re not really the talking types. She lunges right at him, her fists crackling with electricity. He grabs her hands, allowing jolts to course through him so that he can roll to his back and flip her straight out the window. 

The glass smashes all around him, raining down like slivers of ice. Outside, he hears her hit the ground and roll. Without a second to lose, he leaps to his feet, ready to keep her at bay. She stands, electricity zapping down her arms. However, now outside, she’s forced to pause. 

Down the street, a gang is gathering. They watch her with careless but curious gazes, waiting to see what she’s up to. Azazel knows she could kill him right now and they wouldn’t bat an eye, but she hesitates. She must decide no witnesses are worth the risk, because she backs away, racing off into the night. 

Exhausted and reeling from the shock, Azazel flops down to sit on the floor. He stares out the broken window, trying to piece together this incident like puzzle pieces that belong to separate boxes. 

After a long few minutes of staring into space, he’s suddenly reminded of the other intruders. Where did they go? Are they still here? Where? 

He jumps to his feet and begins his feverish search. Under the bed, in the cramped closet, behind the curtains; he looks everywhere twice and then a third time. Nothing. He pokes his head outside and checks there. Nothing. 

There’s no one here. Just him and his things. And after checking his things, he confirms that nothing was taken, either. It’s almost as if nothing even happened tonight, if not for the evident broken window. 

So, what was all of this? 

They didn’t steal anything. They didn’t demand any information from him. The only logical conclusion is that they wanted him dead. Why, he doesn’t know. Right now, that’s the least of his concerns. 

What the hell is he supposed to do? Who does he go to when a violent group wants him dead? He can’t go to Officer Nigel or the other law enforcement officers, they’ll investigate and that could turn up some evidence for his thefts that he’d rather they not see. Gunnora is always first in his mind to go to when something goes wrong, but he hesitates to go to her now. Even if Gunnora is a soldier and Fulk is a veteran, going to them for protection doesn’t sit well with him. He’d be putting them in danger. 

But where else can he turn? He needs someone who won’t have time to dig up his crimes, who is strong enough to help, and who he doesn’t care enough about to worry over. 

That narrows it down to about one person in this whole town. 

****

He knocks on the giant oak doors. When they open and reveal General Thurston, Azazel smiles up at him. 

“Good evening,” he says, “I’d like to request your protection.”


	2. Clash of Class

So, to recap: Azazel has waltzed up to the general’s summer estate, uninvited, in the middle of the night, and woken up his house. He has requested the general’s protection, all while he plans to rob him during his wedding or honeymoon. It’s disgusting. Azazel smiles at his own audacity. 

He sits in a dim, candlelit lounge with General Thurston and his fiancé, Alistair. Two soldiers around Thurston’s age stand at attention, an escavalier and an aegislash. They’re ideal soldiers, Azazel supposes, inactive unless given orders. He still doesn’t know their names, so he’s resorted to calling them Horny and Butterknife in his head. 

He’s aware of how tense he’s made the room with his request. He’s relishing in it. Horny and Butterknife, still and silent like stone, seem to be itching to share a bewildered glance. General Thurston is standing in the center of the room, blinking at Azazel past his eyeglasses as if he’s a difficult word he can’t sound out. Alistair, lounging on the couch and draped in red satin sheets, narrows his eyes at Azazel like he can glare him out of existence. Azazel sits in his chair comfortably, accepting a cup of tea and a cookie when Pepin shakily offers it to him. He raises the cookie just slightly, like he might throw it. Pepin jumps and scurries out of the room. Alistair’s glare sharpens. 

“Azazel, tell me,” the general begins, putting a hand to his chin, “Why I would agree to protect you. You may have a certain charm to you that gets others to go along with your petty schemes, but that won’t be enough to convince me to allow a known thief into my home.” 

Azazel feigns innocence. “Who, me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“Need I remind you, sir, no one’s ever witnessed me commit any crime, unless being devilishly handsome is a crime.” 

“Perhaps not, but it is well known around the town what you get up to,” General Thurston insists. “An old friend has written to me extensively about you.” 

Eustace, that snobby son of a bitch. He really can’t get over losing one little piece of his stupid glass set, can he? 

“Whether you believe these baseless rumors or not is up to you, sir,” Azazel says, “But it’s also up to you to protect the people your army fights for, am I right? And aren’t I one of those people?” 

The general almost looks inclined to say ‘no’. 

“Besides,” Azazel adds, placing his tea and cookie on the table beside him so he can lean forward. “If there is a gang of killers wandering the town, don’t you want to put a stop to it? I mean, you and your fiancé are in this town now, too. How devastating it would be to lose one of you just before the wedding.” 

General Thurston pauses. He regards Azazel with a certain hesitance. Then, turning to the two silent soldiers, he says, “Savaric. Grimald. Please accompany me to the study.” To Azazel, he says, “Forgive me. I will have to take a moment to confer with my close friends on this matter.” 

The three men exit the room, the general’s footsteps echoing as they travel down the hall. Azazel leans back in his seat, picking up the cookie and twisting it between his fingers. It looks hard and tasteless. He drops it back on the plate. 

He can barely hear the hushed whispers of the general and his men as they speak in the study. Although he can’t hear any words, he can pick up their tone perfectly. Each and every one of them sounds wrought with tension on the matter. Clearly, he’s sparked a massive debate just by being here. He considers it a talent. 

Across the room, Alistair sits on the couch and glares at him. Still. With the candlelight and the red satin sheets around him, he almost looks like a classical painting. A very angry painting. 

“He won’t help you,” Alistair states. 

Azazel spreads his legs indolently and grins, making himself comfortable. “And why’s that?” 

“The general is honorable, and he takes great strides to ensure that his good reputation remains pristine,” he responds, sniffing at Azazel like he’s a tear in an otherwise perfect garment. “He won’t sully it with the presence of someone like you. You ought to start looking for help elsewhere.”

Azazel smirks, tilting his head up and staring Alistair down. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, sweetheart.” 

The sound of the general’s returning footsteps silences their sharp exchange. When General Thurston arrives, flanked by his trusted companions, he looks Azazel dead in the eye and states, 

“I will help you.” 

Alistair nearly gives himself whiplash to spin around and gape at the general with astonishment and disapproval. Azazel’s smile grows, and he leaps to his feet. 

“Well, Mister General, sir, I promise you will not regret this,” he assures, shaking his hand. Already, he’s sizing up the valuables in the house and deciding which to steal. “I cannot begin to thank you enough, so I won’t even try.” 

Turning to Alistair, his smile grows a little smug. Alistair glares at him with loathing beyond anything he’s ever seen before. Making his voice as sweet and sugary as honey, he says, “I look forward to spending much, much more time together now that the general has accepted my request.” 

Alistair looks ready to skewer him. 

****

“... and so after I almost got murdered, I went to General Thurston, and now he’s allowing me to stay at his house under his protection.” 

Sitting on the same staircase they had yesterday, Gunnora stares at him like he’s an entirely different person. He’s not sure whether he lost her at the murder part or the part where he’s backhandedly asking for the general’s protection. 

“It’s a pretty good set up,” he remarks, leaning back. “No murderer would dare cross the general, since they’d get executed if they killed him. I get free food. Free rent. Free everything. And it’s all nice stuff, too. You wouldn't believe how good those rich folks have it. The only downside is that I have a babysitter,” he nods to Savaric in the far corner, the escavalier he had dubbed ‘Horny’ before he knew his actual name, “And that I have to tolerate Mister Alistair Laurembleagh or whatever.” 

“Laurembert,” she corrects. 

“Oh, that’s where you decide to chip in?” He asks. “Not at the crazy murder part?” 

“Dude, even though I recognize the ironic humor in this, I’m worried you’re getting in over your head,” she says, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Asking for help from someone you plan to double cross sounds like a bad, bad idea. Especially when they’re a powerful person.” 

“See, I don’t think I’m in deep enough.” He jokes, “I wanna be the general’s best man in the wedding when this is over.” 

“Dear god.” 

“Wouldn’t that be hilarious? How pissed would Alistair Laurembrat be if I were in his wedding?”

“Laurembert.” 

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s Laurembrat.” 

“Azazel.” 

“Laurembitch?” 

She snorts in spite of herself, then scowls at him for making her laugh. Shoving him, she fights the smile creeping on her face as he snickers. Turning to Savaric, who’s staring at them from the corner, she clears her throat uncomfortably and asks, “So, uh. Is that guy just gonna stare at you the whole time you’re out? Like, he’s not even gonna come over here and chat?” 

“Don’t think so,” Azazel sighs, plopping his chin in his hands. “Let me tell you, the walk here was really awkward. He is not the most conversational. I’m not looking forward to returning to the general’s for dinner.” 

“I’m so jealous of you,” she moans, slumping back. “Seriously, I dedicate my life to serving in his army and you decide to rob him and now you get to live with him? Why?”

“Well, I was almost murdered last night. Not sure if I mentioned that.” 

Gunnora stares at the wall, deep in thought. After a long, drawn out moment, she whispers, “I need someone to try and murder me.” 

“You’re pathetic, Gunn,” he laughs, punching her arm. “Just come visit me for dinner; I’m sure he’d love to have you.” 

She practically shoots up. “You think?!” 

“Yeah, why not.” 

Bouncing to her feet and snatching his arm, she cries, “Well, why didn’t you say so earlier! Let’s go to dinner now!” 

“Okay, let’s g—ooooh woah woah woah slow down, man!” 

But once Gunnora gets going, it’s too late. She races out of the inn with Azazel in tow, reaching speeds that the gods could only dream of. Only two things motivate her to run like this: good beer and her hero. All Azazel can do is hang on tight as he’s shaken up like a ragdoll all across the town. 

Behind him, he’s vaguely aware of Savaric giving chase. Hopefully, he doesn’t think Gunnora is kidnapping him or something. But it doesn’t seem like he’s trying too hard to catch up, so Azazel figures he gets the drift. Or maybe he’s trying his best to catch up, but Gunnora is just too fast. Azazel finds the latter more believable. Gunnora is, by far, the fastest person in town. She carried mail for the town in her younger years, and no one ever had a complaint that their letters didn’t arrive on time. Her speed has only increased the stronger she’s gotten. She’ll beat Savaric to the general’s house, easy. 

It’s when they reach the town square that he begins to worry. This place is always filled to the brim with vendors and merchants, but today, it’s even busier than usual with the wedding preparations. Carts with white flowers and streamers and tablecloths block their path, surrounded by crowds of preparers and spectators alike. And Gunnora is not slowing down. 

“Gunn,” he calls over the rush of wind. “Gunn. Gunnora!” 

When the townsfolk see Gunnora charging their way, they gasp and scurry back. Effortlessly, she leaps over the carts and hits the ground running. Someone behind them curses her out, but her grin doesn’t falter. She’s too excited to be brought down. Her eyes are sparkling so bright that they’re almost blinding, all at the prospect of dinner with some old guy. 

She darts through the town square, dodging meandering rich tourists and bounding over boxes and goods. People duck and dive out of her way, recognizing the fire in her eyes and the vigor in her gait. She seems to pick up speed with every step, slowly losing Savaric in the crowd. 

Dashing out of the center of town, she sprints down a broad, winding path lined with close knit buildings and covered with several arches. The street is relatively empty, save those traveling toward the town square, and Gunnora has plenty of room to run wild. She does just that. If Azazel thought she was running like a maniac before, he was wrong. Now, she bounces so high into the air he nearly smacks his head on one of the arches. 

Punching her shoulder, he shouts, “Stay on the ground!” 

“Sorry!” She calls, grounding herself but not slowing down. 

The buildings become more sparse as they continue down the road, and the arches are gone all together. Wildflowers and ocean scenery take their place, striking Azazel’s face with salty summer sweetness as they run. Looking ahead, his eyes are drawn to the lone, large estate that towers on a hill. 

The estate is, by far, the largest building in town. Its two stories tower over the rest, as if somehow a rich person’s two floors is taller than a common person’s. The walls are impeccably white, made of shining marble, and are carved to make intricate designs from top to bottom. The front is canvassed by several glimmering windows, almost like crystals. The roof is made of black shingles and the stairs that lead to the door are the same shade. White pillars line the front of the house, from roof to floor. Hedges and primly kept gardens surround the building. An ostentatious fountain stands before the house. 

Azazel is pretty sure Gunnora tears up their lawn in her mad dash to the front door. When she scrambles up the steps, she hastily comes to a stop, leaving Azazel to fly forward and hit the ground. He groans, standing. She snorts. Far behind, Savaric runs to catch up. When he arrives on the staircase, he is clearly winded but trying to hide it.

Throwing them each a well-deserved glare, Savaric approaches the door and knocks. After a minute or two, the door is opened by Pepin. He does not look pleased to see the company. 

They enter, and Pepin flutters off to the kitchen or some other back room. Savaric goes down the hall, likely to fetch the general, leaving Gunnora and Azazel in the lounge together. Azazel makes himself comfortable on a plush chair, but Gunnora remains standing at attention, stiff, as if the general might critique her stance. 

“Chill, man,” he says, kicking his feet up on the table. “Make yourself at home.” 

“This is not your house, you can’t give that invitation out. And get your feet off the table,” she hisses, lunging forward to swat his legs. Instead of drawing his legs back, he draws himself to his legs, standing on the table. “Azazel!” 

“What?” 

“Get off the table!” 

“Nah, I can see better up here.” She reaches her arms out to snatch him up, but he floats up just in time to avoid her. Staying in the air, he puts a hand to his chin and looks around. “Hmm. I wonder what I should steal?” 

Gunnora somehow goes pale with anxiety and red with indignance all at once. “Don’t you dare.” 

“What about this clock?” He teases, drifting over to the fireplace and studying the clock on the mantle. “Do you think this would be a good steal?” 

“No.” 

“You know what, you’re right,” he says, “We wanna steal something antique, maybe. Something one of a kind.” 

“No, there is no ‘we’ in this,” she frantically corrects, shooing him away from the fireplace. He wanders over the the bookshelf instead, perusing the little trinkets that decorate it. “I am absolutely not wrapped up in your shit.” 

“You are now.” 

“Nope.” 

“We’re partners in crime.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“I’m gonna make you take a blood oath.” 

“You don’t even have blood,” she points out. 

“Well, you better find me some.” 

Someone clears their throat. “Mister Azazel, sir.” 

Both Azazel and Gunnora go still, turning to see Grimald (the aegislash he called ‘Butterknife’) hovering in the door. He’s so silent that it is impossible to know how long he’s been standing there. Gunnora shoots Azazel a fearful glance, clearly asking, ‘How much did he hear?’ 

“The general will see you in the dining hall,” Grimald reports, gesturing down the hall. Without waiting for them, he turns and leaves, none the wiser to their conversation. But it was close. 

Azazel sighs, irritated. “Those two are always on my back.” 

They make their way to the dining hall, entering a room with a long oak table surrounded by dozens of plush chairs. A massive fireplace rests on the back wall, warming the room and providing an imposing backlighting for the general as he sits at the head of the table. A chandelier hangs over the table, glittering and gaudy. The dining table is set with the fanciest of porcelain and silver. 

All in all, this seems to be a bit much for one little meal. 

The general, at the head of the table, is seated beside Alistair at his right hand side. Savaric sits to his left along with Grimald, and Pepin stands near the doorway to attend to the meal. Gunnora enters, tense and nervous in such a grandiose setting. Azazel strolls in like he owns the place, pulling out a chair right next to Alistair. 

“Is this seat taken?” He asks politely. His smile is less so. 

Alistair’s everpresent stony expression does not change. He simply turns away and says, “Sit where you like.” 

He obliges. Gunnora, shyly, takes a seat by him. She’s trying but failing to not look starstruck at the sight of the general. 

“Welcome, Azazel. Welcome, Cadet Gunnora,” the general greets kindly. “It is a pleasure to have you here.” 

“The pleasure is all mine!” Gunnora blurts, then shuffles uncomfortably and adds, “Um, sir.” 

Gesturing to the attendant, the general calls, “Pepin, bring in the meal.” 

In no time at all, a heaping dish of the most juicy, tender berries is placed in the center of them all. Wine of the most expensive kind is brought for the enjoyment of all at the table. Pepin dutifully serves both food and drink, moving silently and fastidiously. Only Alistair thanks him. 

The conversation is incredibly boring. If Azazel wanted to find someone to talk to, he go to the inn or the bar. This bunch would be last on his list. Savaric and Grimald mostly speak to each other about the weather, and Alistair does not speak unless spoken to. The general and Gunnora seem to be having the most interesting conversation, but Azazel would hesitate to call it interesting. He only tunes in because he knows this is Gunnora’s dream come true. 

It had started small, with the general asking her how close she was to reaching her lieutenant rank, and she explained to him that she’s been having a difficult time with some of the disciplines or whatever. He began to explain them to her, and she clung onto every word like it was ambrosia from the gods. 

Azazel silently enjoys the conversation, his eyes flicking from the general to Gunnora. She’s practically vibrating in her seat. He’s glad he brought her along for dinner. However, as much as he’d love to enthuse about the tenants of the military or whatever, it’s losing his interest pretty fast. He focuses instead on the room. It’s lavishly decorated with the finest of riches. Surely, there’s something in here that he can steal. 

In his casual perusing of the room, he catches Alistair’s eye. Alistair shoots him a glare, as if he were stealing right before his eyes. Azazel returns the look with a smirk. Alistair turns away from him, reaching for his empty wine glass. With a devious grin, Azazel uses his ghostly abilities to swipe the cup just to the side of Alistair’s reach. 

Alistair pauses, caught off guard. Then, he narrows his eyes pensively at him. Azazel responds with a look of innocence. When Alistair reaches to grab it again, Azazel skirts it just an inch away. Alistair must decide the wine is not worth the hassle, so he lowers his hand and resumes eating. A frown tugs on Azazel’s face. 

Still mentally moving the glass, he subtly pushes it toward the edge of the table. Alistair notices, his eyes widening in the slightest. Instinctively, he reaches out to catch it, but Azazel slips it away from him. Alistair folds his hands in his lap, scowling at Azazel. The next thing he knows, there’s an opposing force being exerted on the glass. Alistair’s eyes glow, just slightly, but it’s enough for Azazel to tell that he’s combatting his ghoulish powers with his own. Staring each other down, a smug grin on Azazel’s face, they begin their silent battle of powers. 

It’s harder, at first, resisting Alistair. The glass even retreats to the safety of the center table, just a bit. But once Azazel gets the hang of it, he starts reclaiming his lost distance. The glass shifts back toward the edge of the table. As it gets closer, Azazel’s smile grows. Alistair is looking more and more distressed. They’re both coming to the same realization: Azazel’s stronger. 

The glass falls. 

Before anyone else can react, Azazel reaches out and snatches it. 

“Good catch,” the general commends, relieved, as Azazel examines the glass. To Alistair, he says, “Please be careful, pet.” 

As if struggling to get the words out, Alistair responds, “My apologies, General.” 

Azazel studies the glass a moment more before putting it back on the table. It’s certainly pricey, but it’s not worth stealing for him. He doesn’t just want to steal something expensive, he wants to steal something valuable. Something that hits close to home. Like the glasses off the general’s nose. 

“Quite quick reflexes you have there,” General Thurston remarks, impressed. 

“Well, if you live here long enough, you’re used to catching things fast,” Azazel explains, “This island has a knack for earthquakes. Dishes and vases are falling all the time.” 

Disdainfully, Alistair states, “Of course. Not only is this island a thousand miles from home, it has a proclivity for earthquakes. How wonderful.” 

General Thurston pats Alistair’s hand. “I have visited this island enough to know it has beauty. You will learn to love it here.” 

Alistair retracts his hand. “It seems there are many things I must learn to love.” 

If Azazel thought the conversation before was sparse, now he can hear a pin drop. Savaric and Grimald exchange a glance, and Gunnora practically shrinks into her seat. General Thurston simply looks down, hiding his hurt expression. 

Alistair clears his throat. “Please, excuse me.” He swiftly rises and exits the room. 

****

The dinner ends how it started: stiff and awkward. General Thurston thanks Gunnora for paying them a visit, welcoming her anytime. She almost faints on the spot, but somehow manages to stumble her way home for the night. The general retires to bed. Pepin is left cleaning the remnants of the dinner away. Azazel only wanders for a minute or two before he decides to go to bed as well. It’s not fun snooping around someone’s house when he’s being tailed by Savaric and Grimald. 

He heads to the guest bedroom set up for him, and Savaric and Grimald retire to their own rooms. He almost considers sneaking back down and scouting out a good steal, but Savaric stares at him until he enters his room and latches the door. He doesn’t put it past them to take shifts in the night to watch him. Great. At this rate, he’ll swipe nothing from the general. 

He turns, facing his luxurious bed. He is not alone. Sitting on his bed, back facing him, is Alistair. 

“You know,” he begins, smirking, “I don’t think the general would be happy to see me behind closed doors with his fiancé.” 

Alistair turns and scowls at him. “You’re despicable.” 

“So, what are you here for, doll?” 

Alistair rises, murder in his eyes. “The question is: what are you here for?” 

He stalks over to Azazel like he’s aiming to strike him. Azazel stands still, nonchalant, smiling up at him. 

“I know you possess a nefarious agenda of some sort,” Alistair declares, stopping just close enough to stare him down. Azazel doesn’t break eye contact. “What are you plotting? What do you hope to get out of the general?” 

“Uh,” Azazel says, “Protection? In case you forgot about that little thing that happened to me last night where I almost got murdered.” 

Alistair waves a hand dismissively. “A common occurrence for your breed of person, I assume.” 

Azazel furrows his brows. “And what, exactly, is my ‘breed of person’?” 

“Despicable. Delinquent. Detestable,” Alistair lists, as if reading off a grocery list instead of talking about a living person. “You are of the lowest denominator of moral character, filled with nothing but vile and reprehensible intent. I do not find it surprising that someone has sought your life. Perhaps this attempt on your life will encourage you to seek a more admirable version of yourself.” 

Azazel stares at him.

“That,” he begins, “Is the most goddamn pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“I am not wron—” 

“Listen,” Azazel snaps, interrupting him. “I’ve almost been killed before, and if that didn’t change me, this won’t either. But you don’t get to look down on me with your judgy attitude and tell me how I oughta live my life. I had to wake up everyday fending for myself and scavenging for food while you ate off silver platters. You don’t get to condemn me for living a life you’ve never had to live, you spoiled, rich little brat.” 

Alistair looks appalled, as if Azazel slapped him in the face. After floundering around for words for a moment, Alistair sputters, “How… dare you—!” 

“I don’t care to hear you throw a tantrum right now,” Azazel interjects, shoving past him to his bed. “Go cry about your hurt feelings to the general. He’s old enough to be your dad, anyway.” 

Alistair trembles with rage, glowering at him with livid, burning eyes. Then, with a sharp spin, he storms out of the room. The door slams behind him. 

Azazel yanks the covers back on his bed and falls into it. Snuffing the oil lamp, he glares at the ceiling in the dark. After a day of unsuccessful theft and having to deal with the most aggravating rich person alive, Azazel is starting to wonder if death is a better alternative to this.


	3. Lingering Tension

To be frank, Azazel’s had a bad week. He complains about this, extensively, to Gunnora at the inn. 

“This is the worst week of my life,” he moans, his head on the table. Felicia pats his head and leaves him a cookie as she hurries past. “The general has his two best buddies babysitting me all the time. Do you know how annoying that is? I can’t catch a second alone; how am I supposed to steal anything?!” 

“That’s rough, pal,” she replies, trying not to laugh. 

“Don’t laugh,” he drones, picking his head back up. “It’s gotten so bad that they won’t even let me pee without telling them where I’m going. I had to sneak out the window just to come here alone. And this is the first time I’ve been without them all week. I wish these murderers would stop being cowards and just kill me already.” 

“Now I’m just imagining Savaric or Grimald asking, ‘you gotta pee?’ with their serious, straight faces.” 

“Gunn, please.” 

“In all seriousness, I know it’s annoying to feel like everyone’s in your business,” she says, “But I think it’s kinda a good thing, too. I mean, if there’s a crazy group of people who want you dead, I’m glad someone's watching your back.” 

“I’m starting to think I got ahead of myself,” he replies, nibbling on the cookie Felicia left him. “I mean, one murder attempt and I run to the general. What if they weren’t even targeting me? What if they just wanted to kill anyone and I happened to be in the wrong place and the wrong time?” 

“Better safe than sorry, dude.” 

“Not really,” he says, shaking his head. “Now that I’ve put all this security on me, I might’ve just doomed my chances of robbing the general.” 

Consolingly, she pats his back. Felicia hops by and leaves him another cookie, which he sullenly accepts. 

The inn door bursts open, nearly beaten off its hinges. Inside charge Savaric and Grimald, eyes wide and on high alert. The moment they spot Azazel, safe and alive, they lower their guard. Now, they look less vigilant and more frustrated. For Azazel, the feeling is mutual. 

“Ugh,” he groans, dropping his head on Gunnora’s arm. “They’re back.” 

They make their way through the inn, marching silently to his side. Honestly, he could almost scream. He’s a free spirit by nature, and having two stingy soldiers breathing down his neck every second of the day is driving him up a wall. They feel like a noose tightening around his neck with every step they take toward him. 

“Mister Azazel,” one of them says, stern. 

He turns around, forces a smile, and waves. “Hey, guys. What’s going on.” 

“Please refrain from leaving the estate property without supervision,” Grimald orders. He sounds like a prison guard, or a really strict babysitter. 

“Yeah, for sure. My bad,” he says, not at all intending to heed their commands. “But is there anyway you guys could maybe, like… chill? Just a little bit?” 

They stare at him like two statues. 

He sighs, turning back around and munching sadly on his cookie. “I’ll take that as a no.” 

Thankfully, they usually watch him from a distance. Anything worse and they’d practically be holding his hand. When they withdraw from him, they go far enough that he can, at the very least, have a private conversation. Still, it’s not enough to exist comfortably. It still feels like he’s tied up, especially when they post themselves at the front door. If he’s leaving this inn anytime soon, they’re coming with him, no arguments. 

“Wow,” Gunnora remarks, “They got here in like, five minutes.” 

Azazel sighs. Heavily. 

If he doesn’t get away from them today, he’ll lose his mind. All he needs is an hour. Just one hour back at his own house, one hour to unwind and not be tangled in this hot mess. If he can get even the smallest scrap of time, he won’t feel like a caged bird anymore. But there’s no escaping Savaric and Grimald. No matter how hard he tries to elude them, they always catch up to him within minutes. They’re good at their jobs, he supposes. He wishes they weren’t. 

Still, Azazel knows this inn well enough to know there’s a back door they aren’t guarding. If he can slip down the hall, past the ‘employees only’ sign, he can sneak out the back door and make a run for it. But tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum won’t let him go that easy. They’ll interrogate him about his destination the moment he steps out of this chair. He could lie and say he’s on his way to the bathroom, but they’ll only believe that lie for so long. They’ll discover he’s not in the building within minutes, and they’ll hunt him down like they always do. He’ll be trapped again. 

This time, he needs a more solid solution. It’s not good enough to just escape. There has to be an obstacle in Savaric and Grimald’s way. He needs a distraction. 

“Hey, Gunn,” he whispers, leaning in. She leans in, too, munching on a cookie. “I need your help escaping these soldier chumps.” 

She frowns at him past her chocolate chip cookie. “As a fellow soldier, I resent that comment.” 

“Come on, you know I think you’re the least chumpiest soldier in the world,” he says, and she nods in agreement. “Just help me get away for like—an hour. Tops.”

She shuffles, debating. “I don’t know, man. They’re just trying to do their duty. I feel for them. I don’t want to get in their way.” 

“I’ll give you a… a…” 

“I’ve seen your house, you have nothing to bargain.” 

“A really cool rock.” 

“No, dude.” 

He flops, face first, onto the counter. If he could curl up and die here, that would be nice. Instead, he remains alive. Felicia trots over and sympathetically pats his head. Fulk joins her, a slightly amused expression on his face. 

“What’s happening over here? Azazel’s not drunk already, is he?” 

“I wish,” he mutters.

“He’s moping because I won’t help him escape from his babysitters,” Gunnora replies, stifling her laughter by shoving another cookie in her mouth. She nods to Savaric and Grimald, who sit stoic and silent in the far corner. “They’re those two colonels over there. Like, I’m not gonna defy someone so many ranks higher than me.” 

Fulk studies them for a moment, a faint frown on his face. He strokes his beard in thought. Then, to Gunnora, he says, “When I was your age…” 

“Boo,” Azazel says, giving him a thumbs down. 

“Not another one of your lectures, Dad,” she whines, mirroring Azazel’s miserable posture. 

“Hush, now,” he scolds them, a light-hearted smile on his face. “Someday, it just might do you some good to listen to what this old man has to say.” 

He continues, “When I was your age and I was in the military, all I could think about was being the perfect soldier. I did everything my superiors told me, without question. I rose in the ranks very quickly; I became a respected colonel. I gained the titles and the honors, but do you know what I never learned there?

“I never learned how to be a good man. I never learned how to be a good friend. I lost many people I cared about in an effort to become the best soldier I could be. Looking back on it, I should’ve chosen to be a good person over a good warrior—but back then, I didn’t know the difference. Do you?” 

Gunnora throws her head back, letting out an over-dramatic sigh. Azazel grins at her expense. As long as he’s sitting here miserable, she can be miserable with him, too. 

Fulk concludes, “Help people first. Serve your ambitions second. Then, you’ll be able to look back on your life without regrets.” 

“That’s some good advice,” Felicia chirps, kissing Fulk’s cheek. Patting Azazel and Gunnora on their heads, she suggests, “Why don’t you two get up to a little trouble, just this once? Like you used to. Help Azazel sneak out.” 

Gunnora and Azazel share a look. 

She grins. “Oh, what the hell.” He shares her smile. 

She stands, jumping on the table. Taking a deep breath, she fills her chest with air until she can’t anymore. She cups her hands around her mouth. At the top of her lungs, she bellows, “FIRE!” For good measure, she picks up a chair and smashes it over the table. Or, maybe she just wanted to. But it adds to the general confusion and escalates the chaos tenfold. In no time at all, patrons are scrambling to their feet and pushing past each other in writhing pandemonium. 

Before Savaric and Grimald can act, Azazel ducks under the table. Above him, Gunnora continues to scream. Not even words, just screaming, like a lunatic. He pokes his head out from under the table, careful not to be seen by the colonels and not to get his head stepped on by fleeing people. From his spot on the ground, he can just barely see the two soldiers. They’re still in the corner he left them, but active. They’re frantically attempting to shove through the crowd and find him. 

Scooting backwards, he crawls out the other end of the table. He almost gets stepped on by an overeager nidoking, but avoids them just in time. The room is still filled with customers and loiterers alike, desperately elbowing their way through the crowd. He has to go, now, while the uproar is ripe. If he waits too long, he’ll be easy to spot. 

Taking a blind leap of faith, he jumps out from under the table and keeps himself on all fours. Crawling across the floor, he treads a fine line between moving too fast and too slow. If he’s not moving at the perfect speed at the perfect time, he’ll get trampled on. And that won’t feel great. 

Someone running past steps on his fingers. He hisses in pain and clutches his hand, having half the mind to cuss them out, but if he says a word he might get caught. He can’t risk botching the plan now that it’s in motion. No matter what, Savaric and Grimald can’t see him. He pushes onward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his hand. 

Somewhere in the disorder, he hears Savaric and Grimald shouting to each other. They’re shouting about him: where is he, you said you saw him, he was just here! A triumphant grin stretches across his face, and he wishes he could see the look of dismay on their faces. But he doesn’t pause or turn; he hasn’t got the time. Especially when he’s so close to the backdoor that he can almost smell the summer breeze drifting in. 

Out of nowhere, a giant foot comes stomping down towards him. His nerves all stand on end, and at the last second, he sinks into the floor to avoid it. When he pops back up, he turns to see who almost killed him only for another pair of feet to come rushing down towards him. He lunges to the side at the last second, scrambling past the ‘employees only’ section of the hall where there’s no foot traffic. 

He doesn’t waste time catching his breath, not when the door is wide open and right around the corner. Stealing one last glance back at the mayhem, he sees Savaric and Grimald helplessly trapped in the middle of all of the squirming and dashing people. Gunnora still stands on a table, screaming bloody murder and throwing things into the air to add to the chaos. She catches his eye, giving him a thumbs up. He returns the gesture. 

Taking off around the corner, he darts out the door and into the night. The wind whips against his face as he runs, the moon glows down on him, and the night air chills him to the core. He gets to the point where he could surely stop running if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He just keeps running, feeling the cobblestone smack against his feet. A gust of fresh air washes over him, invigorating him. 

Finally. 

He bolts through town, dashing past shops and lamps and people and flowerpots, and he’s never felt so alive. He’s like a bird that’s just been released from its cage. The farther behind he leaves Savaric and Grimald, the more he feels like himself again. He could almost pretend this whole mess of a week didn’t happen.   
Underside arrives quicker than he expected, and he’s never been so thankful to see it. He could almost cry at the sight of the shanty houses and filthy dirt roads. He gladly welcomes the violent gangs and all the dangers that come with this part of town if it means being free. 

When he reaches his house, he flings open his door and takes a deep breath of the stale air. His dusty bed greets him, and he longs to flop into the rock hard mattress and take a nap. And that’s just what he’ll do. Everything is wonderful again, he decides, closing the door behind him and hopping on his bed. Laying down, he closes his eyes and smiles serenely. Everything is wonderful indeed. 

Then, in natural fashion, everything is much less wonderful in the span of about a second. 

After laying on his bed, he’s suddenly snatched into the air. For an instant, he fears Savaric and Grimald caught up to him and grabbed him. But when he opens his eyes, he sees that no one grabbed him. Surrounding him on all sides, a net made of thick rope encapsulates him. What is this? A trap someone set in his bed? Who would do something like this? 

The murderers. 

Immediately, he tries to phase through it. The rope rejects him and spits him back out. He tries again, and again, with the same result. Whatever this material is, it’s not something he can move through. It’s something designed specifically against that. 

So, now’s the time where he panics a bit. 

He’s stuck, in this trap, alone, right where the killers want him. No one knows he’s here but Gunnora and maybe her parents. No one’s coming for him. In a twisted turn of events, he almost wishes Savaric and Grimald were tailing him again. Distressed, he frantically begins to slice at the rope with a claw. It makes slow, steady progress, but it won’t be enough for when the killers emerge from wherever they’ve been hiding in wait. 

Speaking of. Where are they? 

Still cutting through the rope, he turns his head and looks around on all sides. No one is sneaking out of the closet. No one’s sliding through the broken window. The door is still shut. The room is empty, and no one is coming to attack. 

The deeper he cuts into the rope, the more he notices the dust flying in the air. That’s when he discovers the thin layer of dust all over the net, just as there’s a thin layer of dust on his bed. This trap has been left here as long as he’s been at the general’s, a week or less. The killers likely waited a day or two, then deciding he wasn’t coming back, they abandoned the project. Or, they resigned to check it every few days. 

Immense relief washes over him, and he breaks out of the net and drops to the floor. Picking himself up, he dusts himself off and prepares to head straight back to the inn. He’s got quite the update for the murder drama to dish with Gunnora. 

A sound outside makes him pause. 

He silences himself, straining to hear better. He can pick up the faintest of voices drifting through the night like ghosts. They’re too quiet to recognize, and they’re too quiet to determine what they’re saying. What he can tell is that the people are just outside his window. Knowing the atmosphere of the Underside, he knows that no one in their right mind would wander these streets this late at night. 

That is, unless they’re on a mission. Like a murderer out for blood, for example. 

Hastily, he presses himself against the wall to conceal himself from the window. If these are the killers returning to check their trap, they’ll see that it went off and that he broke free. They’ll start searching for him right away, and in this dinky house, they’ll find him with ease. He can’t stay here and hide. He has to take off and run. Carefully, he pokes his head toward the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the killers to estimate if he can outrun them all. When he sees them, he realizes the voices don't belong to killers at all. 

One of the gangs in this part of town, The Grimer Gang, is surrounding their newest victim. This gang is known for oozing out of the sewers at night and skulking through the streets, causing general mayhem. Usually, the most illicit thing they do is some vandalism and lewd catcalling. Right now, it looks like they’re doing the latter, with a hint of violence sprinkled in. 

Azazel leans to the side slightly, taking a closer look at their target. His eyes widen when he recognizes that cold, stern face.   
“Ey, baby, why don’t you walk this way a little more,” a grimer jeers, a perverse expression on his face. 

“Yeah, show us what that body can do!” 

Alistair scowls in disgust, attempting to shove past and continue on his way. Two of the grimers stand in his way, and another grabs his arm. 

“Why doncha come back ta our place,” the grimer suggests, tugging on his arm forcefully. Alistair tries to rip himself away, but the grimer has a tough hold on him. “We’ll show ya a good time.” 

The gang hoots and hollers and sneers, making crude comments and shoving Alistair down the street with them. Azazel steps out of the broken window and onto the road, calling, “Hey!” 

The gang stops, turning to face him. Alistair’s eyes flicker with distrust and contempt. Azazel can’t believe that out of all the people he had to save tonight, it ended up being Alistair Laurembitch. 

“Why don’t you all just leave him alone,” he suggests, strolling up to them. “You know he’s the general’s fiancé, right? He can’t possibly be worth a duel to the death for you all.” 

They stare at him with beady eyes like he’s grown two heads. One of them asks, “Are you the general?” 

“What? No. Why would you think—”

“Then we ain’t care,” the grimer says simply. They continue on their way. 

“Oh, great,” Azazel grumbles. Sinking into the shadows, he darts toward the grimer holding Alistair and pops out of the ground, slugging him in the face. The grimer   
shudders back, melting to the ground in a useless puddle. His eyes spin in circles, clearly disoriented. Turning to the rest of the gang, Azazel asks, “Who’s next?” 

He’d been hoping they’d flee. He hadn’t been hoping to hear, “Ooh, me! I’m next!” just before another grimer lunged at him. The rest follow suit, turning the street into a cage match. 

Two grimers jump at him, and he beats them back before they can even reach a hand out to him. Another one latches on his side, attempting to drag him to the ground. He shoves them off, getting a face full of gunk from another. Wiping the filth away, he lunges at them and beats them to the ground. The other grimers close in. 

After that, the grimers crowd him and attack all at once, seeming to melt together into one blurry, fused monstrosity. All he can do is hack and slash at every glob of purple he sees, filling the air with the noxious stench of the grimers’ toxins and splattering the dirt with their fluids. They moan and wail as he lashes them, some of them slipping to the floor in a flat puddle of agony. One of them reaches an arm toward the zipper on Azazel’s mouth, and in a frenzied moment, he nearly bends himself backwards to avoid it. 

“Are you crazy?!” He snaps, kicking them between the eyes. They quiver and collapse into a blob. The next grimer he meets gets even less mercy. He’s quickly losing his patience. 

Soon enough, the gang have been thoroughly chopped up and taken care of. They ooze across the dirt, weak and in pain, moaning as they slip back to the cover of the sewers. When the last of them disappear, he grunts to himself in disgust, shaking the toxins off himself. This bad week is shaping up to be a bad two weeks if this keeps up. 

“Why were you so concerned about your zipper?” Alistair inquires, completely foregoing personal boundaries or maybe even a ‘thank you’. 

Azazel sighs. He figures he should have expected as much. This is Alistair, after all. 

“Because,” he says, “If someone other than me opens it, my soul is released and I die.” 

“I see.” 

A moment of silence interjects itself between them. 

“So,” Azazel begins, “Why are you here?” 

Alistair looks down the street. “I was taking a midnight stroll.” 

His response sets off a red flag in Azazel’s mind. If that answer wasn’t suspicious, then Azazel’s not a thief. Why would the general’s fiancé, a young, rich, handsome man, be wandering around the shadiest part of town in the middle of the night? For a midnight stroll? He has to be lying. But why? 

A thought so crazy strikes him that he almost has the conscience to cast it out. What if Alistair is the one orchestrating these attempted murders? Some things add up: the attempts didn’t start until Alistair and the general arrived. More specifically, until after Azazel and Alistair had their first spat in the inn. It would explain why he’s wandering the Underside this late; he wanted to check on the trap. Most strikingly, Alistair literally just asked about how to kill him a second ago. Well, in a roundabout way, but he did. 

Taking a step forward, he demands, “And why, exactly, would you choose to walk in such a dangerous part of the town, of all the places you could go?” 

Alistair turns back to him and blinks. “This is a dangerous part of town?” 

Azazel stares at him for a long, long while. He has to be joking. Unfortunately, Alistair’s expression betrays no evidence of that. He’s pretty sure Alistair couldn’t make a joke if it saved his life, anyhow. 

“Yeah,” Azazel answers, somewhat slowly, as if the words can’t catch up to his brain. “How did you not know that?” 

Slightly defensive, Alistair retorts, “Well, how was I supposed to?” 

“I don’t know, maybe all the shanty huts and the dirt roads? Or the literal, actual wall and fence that separates the good part of town from this place?” 

“I assumed this is how some common folk live.” 

Azazel studies him, trying to determine whether or not he’s being pretentious for the sake of getting on his nerves, or if he’s actually just that clueless. Alistair gazes around at the street, murmuring to himself to try and remember how to retrace his steps and return to the estate. After watching a half minute of this, Azazel sighs, begins walking to the estate, and says, “This way.” 

Yeah, there’s no way Alistair is the killer. He’s just a dumbass.


	4. A House Divided

“Do you want to die?” General Thurston demands. 

“...Is that a trick question?” Azazel asks. 

He’s been sitting in the general’s lounge for the first fifteen minutes after eating breakfast, being thoroughly reprimanded for last night’s shenanigans in the inn. The general has spent every minute reminding Azazel that he graciously accepted Azazel’s plea for protection and that he is doing what he sees fit to ensure his life is spared. He stresses that Savaric and Grimald are there for his protection, not as his babysitters, and if he wants to act like a child then he ought to find someone willing to coddle him. 

Azazel hasn’t been listening to most of the lecture. He tunes in here and there to make a smart comment, but other than that, he’s studying the room for anything to steal. Examining the lounge is starting to get aggravating. He’s seeing the same old posh things, over and over, and getting nowhere. None of it is good enough to steal. He needs something the general is going to miss. 

“For the rest of this week, I must insist you remain within the estate at all times,” General Thurston commands, and Azazel slumps farther into his chair. “Consider it a better alternative to dying from your own folly.” 

Yesterday, Azazel couldn’t get away from the general’s bffs. Now, he can’t get away from his house. He bids his deeply cherished freedom goodbye. 

Pepin flutters into the room along with Alistair, perching on the back of the couch beside the general. Eyeing Azazel suspiciously, like he might have a cookie hidden somewhere, he hops one step closer to the general. 

“Sir,” he says, “The florist is here, and she would like to meet with you considering the floral arrangements for the wedding.” 

General Thurston stands. “You must excuse me, Azazel. I have business to attend to. Again, I will stress: do not leave the estate.” 

Azazel sighs, offering him a half-hearted salute. Pepin seems pleased with Azazel’s fate, as he returns to the kitchen looking rather smug. The general turns to exit, facing Alistair. 

“Ah, good morning, my pet,” he greets, holding out a hand. Mechanically, Alistair offers his hand for the general to take and kiss. “Would you like to accompany me to the florist’s?” 

“Not this morning, thank you,” Alistair rejects, retracting his hand. “I am feeling weary. I did not sleep well last night.”

The two of them discuss something or another, floral patterns maybe, and Azazel tunes them out. Eventually, the general leaves to run their wedding errands, and Azazel is left in the lounge with Alistair. He expects to either be ignored or reprimanded for his posture or something stuffy like that, but then, Alistair says, “I suppose I… ought to thank you for last night.” 

Looking at Alistair’s expression reveals a rare crack in his near constant stoicism. The slightest hint of pink dusts his cheeks, but the shade from his hat-like extension conceals it well. He seems embarrassed to concede gratitude. Normally, Azazel would milk this moment. He’d rub it in a little. Right now, he’s just too tired for any of that. 

He shrugs. “Just leave it.” 

Silence.

“I couldn't help but overhear that you have been subject to house arrest,” Alistair remarks. Azazel could laugh. Of course, when he has the decency to not gloat in Alistair’s face, Alistair doesn’t have the same inclination. 

“Yep, I sure did,” he responds with sarcastic chipperness. “I bet you love that I’m trapped in this boring house all week.” 

A beat. 

“I’d say I’m more indifferent to it,” Alistair replies, “But I assure you, the estate is not dull. There is plenty to entertain yourself with.” 

Azazel gives him an unimpressed look. “Like what.” 

Alistair turns, gesturing for him to follow. “I’ll show you.” 

****

“And this one is titled Righteous Sin,” Alistair informs, taking Azazel by the seventeenth classic painting in this hall alone. The image is of a soldier in white standing over the slain bodies of dozens of people clad in an array of dark colors. “As you can see, the soldier thinks himself in the midst of a glorious pursuit for good, massacring those who are not in white. However, the bodies beneath him glow with heavenly light while he does not. This is to symbolize that he has made himself holy in his own mind while committing atrocities against genuinely good people…” 

Azazel doesn’t think he can listen to another analysis of symbolism and motif and theme or whatever the hell Alistair sees in these paintings. He barely listens to Alistair ramble—do you see how he’s dressed himself in white to pretend he can glow like the others?—and instead opts to search the hall for something to steal. Any of these pieces of art could be a good payout, but difficult in operation. He’s not sure he could sneak out of here with one of the general’s paintings, at least not easily. Besides, do any of these paintings hold deep value to the general, or are they just aesthetic? 

He gazes down the hall, letting Alistair ramble to himself. The corridor is needlessly long and frivolously filled with posh art just for show. At the end of the hall, a large, golden arch curves to open up to a new room. From a distance, Azazel can’t tell what type of room it is. It’s large and sunny, that’s for sure. Possibly full of goodies to snatch. 

Alistair catches his gaze and remarks, “That’s the library. I spend most of my time there. Would you like to see?” 

The library is, as Azazel saw from the hall, ginormous. But standing inside is much more impressive than an outside view. The shelves stretch so high that he can’t read the titles of the highest books. It’s an endless sea of books: history, fantasy, instructive, romance, adventure, arithmetic, philosophy, and a bunch of other practices Azazel doesn’t know. He gawks at the tremendous display. He’s certain the vast collection in the Skystead Library can’t even compete with this. 

Alistair floats beside him, gazing up at the books as if this is any other room. “General Thurston had the library installed in our summer home because he knows I enjoy literature. However, he says he will not buy me anymore books until I have read all of these. So, my goal is to read this entire library by the end of the year.” 

“By the end of the year?” Azazel repeats, incredulous. “It’s summer and you just got here, there’s no way you’ll finish.” 

“Perhaps not. But I have made decent progress.” 

“How much?” 

Alistair points to a shelf. “I have read that.” 

Azazel looks between him and the shelf that towers to the ceiling. “What, like you’ve… read some books on that shelf?” 

“No. I have read the entire shelf.” 

“The entire shelf?!” He exclaims, inclined to call bullshit. But Alistair nods seriously, so he has no choice but to take his word for it. Staring up at the monstrous amount of books, he finds himself getting a headache just thinking about all of that reading. “Well. You sure like to read, huh.” 

“Indeed,” Alistair responds, pleased. He floats over to a window seat in the center of the room, sitting on the plush cushions and taking a book left on the sill. “This is the newest book I am reading. Have you heard of it?” 

“Not much of a reader,” he admits, “But what’s it called?” 

“Rosera Rellom.” 

“...What?”

“Rosera Rellom,” he repeats, “Are you familiar with the Kiveri language?” 

“Uh, I’m aware that it exists, but I don’t speak it.” 

“Do you speak Motoge? Isatoi? Koatio?” 

“No, no, I just speak Kyphic, like everyone else in town. Why? Do you speak all those languages?” 

“I’m not yet fluent in Isatoi.” 

Alistair says it so nonchalantly, as if everyone in the world has experience in five languages. Azazel only stares at him for a second before laughter begins to escape him. Alistair looks up from his book, confused. 

“What?” 

“I don’t get it,” Azazel begins, sitting beside Alistair on the window seat. “How can you read so much and know all these languages and still be a complete idiot with no street smarts?” 

Alistair huffs, flustered, and argues, “I have been raised indoors my whole life and forbidden from mingling with the common folk. How am I supposed to have—what do you call it?—street smarts? I do not possess the knowledge you would consider universally known.” 

“Well, for starters, don’t call people common folk. It’s pretentious.” 

“Oh. I see.” Alistair pauses, seemingly to ponder over his newest discovery. Then, he asks, “Could I inquire more about common… er, the people of your class?” 

Azazel leans back. “Go for it.” 

They exchange questions and answers, going back and forth at the speed of light. Is it true that you don’t have personal attendants like Pepin? How do you entertain yourselves? Where do you shop? Do you drink tea? How does one peel a potato? The questions pour in, one after another, each spoken as honestly and as cluelessly as the last. Some of them, Azazel can’t help but laugh at. But he answers them all just as truthfully as Alistair asked them. All the while, Alistair pays close attention, soaking in the information like a hungry sponge. 

As the conversation goes on, he even finds himself asking Alistair a question or two. How many rich people that you know truly earned their wealth? Do your servants actually help you bathe? Alistair, red-faced, emphatically denies the latter. 

Their conversation carries on so long that Azazel doesn’t realize the sun has gone down and the library has grown dark. It only occurs to him when a voice from the entryway calls, “Alistair.” 

They both turn, facing the general as he stands in the hall. Offering a hand for Alistair to come and take, he urges, “Come to bed. It’s late.” 

Alistair gazes out the window at the moon for a surprised second. Then, he says, “The time must’ve slipped my mind.” Alistair rises, bowing his head to Azazel. “I’m afraid I must bid you goodnight.” 

“Of course. Goodnight.” 

Alistair floats to the general, taking his hand. Azazel watches them leave the library. When they’ve left, he looks up at the moon. He can’t believe he just talked to Alistair Laurembitch for an entire day—and had... fun?

Maybe house arrest won’t be so bad, after all. 

****

The third day of house arrest, he’s in the gardens. He’s had such a difficult time finding something to steal inside the estate that he began to wonder if he was looking in the wrong place. The building is surrounded by spacious gardens. There must be some valuable trinkets here and there, like a small marble statue or something accidentally left on a bench. 

He didn’t count on there being a garden maze. Now, he’s hopelessly lost. He’s taken at least a billion wrong turns but always seems to end up at the same place. What is it with rich people and making labyrinths out of shrubbery? He’ll never understand. 

His patience is running out and he’s just about to float above the maze and never come back when he hears something. From deeper inside the maze, a melody drifts. He stops walking, taking a moment to listen. The song is in a language he doesn’t understand, but it’s no less meaningful. It’s a song about heartbreak, he can tell, because the voice is so full of emotion. He hasn’t heard singing this beautiful since his mother passed away. 

Without his permission, his feet draw closer to the source. He travels through twists and turns and gets so whirled around that he has no sense of direction anymore. But his heart still follows the song, so he presses on. 

When he finally reaches a clearing in the center of the maze, he happens upon an elegant fountain. The rhythmic sound of falling water is background to the song Alistair is singing as he sits on the fountain’s edge. Azazel pauses, almost like the ground is too sacred to walk on, and listens. He suspects if Alistair’s back weren’t to him, he wouldn't have the chance to hear him sing. 

Alistair only seems to be half-singing, as a form of background entertainment to what his actual focus is: writing. The song ebbs and sways from a mere hum to soft, clear words and then back again. Sometimes, he grows entirely silent, and Azazel finds himself yearning for more. When the song returns, it’s always with a riveting note of sorrow. Azazel’s almost glad he doesn’t know the words. If he knew the language, his mind might latch onto the words and not the emotion. 

Azazel allows himself to bask in the music for another minute before taking the slightest step forward. A good person would announce their presence, or simply walk away. But Azazel’s not a good person, so he knows what he has to do. 

Floating above the fountain, close behind Alistair, he whispers, “Boo.” 

Alistair flails in surprise, practically flinging himself backward. Azazel hurriedly backs up to avoid being run into, allowing Alistair to fall right into the fountain. The water splashes outward, rushing onto the marble edge and dripping off. When Alistair thrusts himself back to the surface, gasping, Azazel’s doubled over in laughter. 

Indignant, Alistair whips his head around to glare at him. Azazel can hardly see the annoyance in his expression through his hysterical tears. What he can see, clear is day, is how hilarious Alistair looks sitting in a fountain soaking wet. His amused cackling runs wild. 

“I see you think yourself funny,” Alistair huffs, holding his dripping arms out in front of himself disdainfully. Azazel can only manage a teary nod through his laughter. Reaching out an arm to him, Alistair snaps, “Well, I do not. Help me out.” 

Rolling his eyes, Azazel takes his hand and says, “Yikes, someone got up on the wrong side of the—” 

He’s yanked in. 

When he emerges from the fountain, shaking his head free of water, he sees Alistair in front of him with a hand covering his mouth. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and Azazel suspects a smile is creeping on his face behind that hand. A grin stretches on his face in return. 

“All right, now you’ve done it,” he warns, lunging for Alistair. Alistair leaps out of the fountain, and Azazel jumps after him. “You’re getting dunked!” 

Alistair takes off through the maze, quicker than Azazel expected. He gives chase through the air, flying past every twist and turn Alistair attempts to lose him with. Still, Alistair is starting to shake him. Not only does he know this maze better than Azazel, he’s faster, too. With fairplay alone, Alistair will easily escape him. 

Good thing Azazel’s never played fair. 

He dives into the ground, sinking through it. Darting to the side, he cuts under a hedge and ends up on an entirely new path. When he pops out, Alistair is just turning the corner to race that way. Seeing him, Alistair spins around and dashes the other way. Azazel does the same thing as last time, blocking Alistair’s path once more. This time, Alistair is just close enough to grab. Azazel reaches out to him, but Alistair whirls around and flees just in the nick of time. His fingers barely brush Alistair’s arm. 

He bolts after him, following him through the winding paths of the maze. They happen upon a long, straight row of hedges that end with no exit. Alistair races to the dead end, and upon realizing he’s cornered himself, he spins around to retreat. However, Azazel’s in his way. 

“Nowhere to run,” he taunts, slowly closing in on him. 

Alistair looks to his sides, as if he’ll be able to phase through the hedges. No ghost-types can move through living things, so he has to know he’s stuck. Unless he moves through the ground or the air, where Azazel can clearly catch him. It’s the end of the road for him.

Except, Alistair suddenly darts to the side. Instead of attempting to phase through one of the hedges, he physically shoves himself between the branches. Azazel can’t help but laugh, diving into the ground to pursue him. When he emerges on the other side, Alistair has already taken off, covered in little scrapes and leaves from the bramble. But Azazel catches up after Alistair second guesses a turn, and they’re only an arm’s length away, now. 

From behind Alistair, he ducks into the earth, shoots forward, and leaps out right in front of him. Alistair’s speed doesn’t give him enough time to stop, and he runs right into Azazel. Finally catching him, Azazel grapples with him until his hands are trapped behind his back. Alistair is laughing. 

“Back to the fountain with you,” he threatens with a grin, causing Alistair to squirm. 

Behind them, someone clears their throat. “Azazel.” 

They turn to see General Thurston. Azazel releases Alistair. 

“I’m happy to see that you are enjoying yourself at the estate,” the general remarks, gesturing for Alistair to join him. With his head down, Alistair does. “But I would prefer you to limit physical contact with my fiancé to something more… conservative.” 

There was an air of freedom in the garden maze that suddenly feels sucked away. 

“Yeah. Sure, I get it,” Azazel replies. Alistair keeps his head down. “It was my fault, I was fooling around. I’ll leave him alone.” 

General Thurston nods, stern but appreciative. When Alistair looks up, he looks at neither of them. His expression has grown cold and dead again. 

The general takes Alistair by the arm, and Alistair obediently links their arms together. “Shall we have lunch outdoors today, my pet?” 

General Thurston and Alistair depart. Azazel watches them go, then turns his head away and sighs. It’s like a chasm has been torn between the little progress he and Alistair were making. Now, this house arrest feels like its old, bitter self again. 

He looks around at the hedges surrounding him. 

“Shit,” he says, “I’m still lost.” 

****

After the fifth night, Azazel is regretting being born. Savaric and Grimald have been on his ass non-stop, there’s nothing good enough to steal, and General Thurston is a huge stick in the mud who considers a week of house arrest a seven day week and not five. The small bits of fun he could have with Alistair have been dashed away. He hasn’t seen Gunnora in days. Overall, he’s just plain miserable. 

He’s been lying in bed for hours, trying to sleep. His mind is too active for rest; he’s itching to burn some energy. The most thrilling thing he can do here is play a solo game of chess, and that’s not gonna help him. All he can do is stare at the ceiling, agonizing as the seconds drip by like molasses. 

Woefully, he drops his head to the side to look at the time. It’s just past two in the morning. He sighs, drearily, returning his despondent gaze to the ceiling. Why are rich people’s ceiling’s so intricate? Why do they have all these fancy designs and gaudy colors? It’s giving him a headache. 

He only ponders his misfortune for a moment longer when something drifts through the air. A sound, a slight, almost non-existent sound slips under the crack of his door from the hall. It catches his attention because he’s both bored out of his mind and confused by it. Savaric and Grimald never make a sound. It can’t be them. The general, nearing his sixties, sleeps through the whole night soundly. Alistair rarely gets up in the night, and when he does, he’s as silent as the colonels. He considers that it could be Pepin wandering around and doing some early morning cleaning, but Pepin wouldn’t dare make a noise that could wake the house. But if it’s none of them, who is it? 

Are they here to rob the general? They would have to have a lot of nerve breaking into the general’s house, either that or be incredibly desperate. But if someone steals from this estate before Azazel, he’s gonna be so pissed. 

He leaps out of bed, tip-toeing closer to the door. As he draws near, the sounds become more intelligible. It’s two people whispering, almost conspiratorially, like they’re hiding something. 

Could it be the killers? No killer could be crazy enough to risk facing the general, right? They’d have to know that killing him would lead to their own death penalty.  
Creeping to the door, he presses himself against it and listens closely. The hushed whispers become clear enough for him to recognize the voices. It’s General Thurston and Alistair. 

“Leave me be. I’m sleeping in the guest room,” Alistair states. 

“Azazel is in the guest room.” 

“We have more than one guest room.” 

Okay, so nothing suspicious is going on here. Just a pre-marital spat. He’s honestly a bit disappointed; he’d hoped that something invigorating would happen and spice up his bland week. He should just go back to bed. There’s nothing for him here. He doesn’t know why his feet stay in place, or why he continues to listen. 

“I never wanted any of this,” Alistair proclaims, bitter. “This was between you and my—” 

“Alistair.” The general’s tone is dark. Imposing. “Come back to bed.” 

This issue is clearly none of his business. Clearly. None. He should just hop back in bed and try to get some much needed sleep. But their voices are rising and their argument is escalating. It’s starting to sound intense. He doesn’t know the general. He doesn’t know where he draws the line with his anger. If things spiral out of control… 

He puts on his best acting face. What does a person who’s trying to sneak out and totally doesn’t realize there’s a couple’s argument past their door look like? Hopefully like him right now. He twists the knob. 

Immediately, their voices hush. He pushes open the door, poking his head out and intentionally peering down the empty part of the hall where they are not. When he turns his head and spots them, he pretends to be surprised. 

“Oh! Hey there, guys.” 

Both the general and Alistair blink back at him. After a moment, Alistair shuffles uncomfortably and looks away. 

General Thurston stares at him, somewhere between disbelief and aggravation. “Were you trying to sneak out again?” 

“Uh… yeah?” He lies. “Looks like you caught me, though. Darn.” 

The general’s temper flares, his expression burning with fury. His voice surging and smoldering with rage, he seethes, “The audacity! Why do you request my help if you insist on defying me at every turn?! Never, in all my life, have I come across someone with such—such blatant disrespect and insolence!” 

“General,” Alistair says, quietly. 

“What is it that you are hoping to achieve?!” The general demands, flames of wrath crackling in his eyes. “Are you trying to get killed?!” 

A little louder: “General.” 

“Would you rather I kill you myself and get it over with?!” 

“General!” Alistair shouts. “Calm yourself. Leave, walk the estate, do as you please until you can control yourself. You wouldn’t want your blood pressure to spike again, now would you?” 

The general is still searing with anger, like he’s itching to strangle Azazel with his bare hands. Alistair glares at General Thurston with cold, resentful spite. After a tense battle of wills between the two of them, the general turns on his heel and marches off to stew in his own boiling air. Azazel doesn’t watch him go.  
Who’d have thought a water-type could be so much like a volcano? 

Gazing at Alistair, he sees the sharp, acidic expression of the Alistair he met in the inn. He asks, “Are you okay?” 

Alistair doesn’t turn to him. “If you know what’s good for you, you had best stop these inane attempts at escape.” With that biting remark, he briskly stalks away. 

Azazel watches him go. 

Heavily, he sighs. He returns to bed, and still doesn’t sleep. 

****

The next day, Azazel is wandering the estate in search of something to steal. Well, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. His heart isn’t really in it, right now. These past two weeks have been a drag, and it’s tearing down his motivation. Last night really hit the nail on the head. 

He drifts into the library, expecting to see Alistair. He tries to ignore the disappointment in his chest when he finds it empty. 

He could steal the books. He suspects that won’t hurt the general as much as it hurts Alistair. There’s a bust at the side of the room made in the general’s visage. That might be too heavy to get away with. 

He flops onto the window seat. There’s nothing here for him. He just wants to get out of this stupid estate. 

On the window sill, he spots the book Alistair had been reading, Rosera Rellom. He had just started it when he last saw it. Now, the bookmark is nearly at the end. Azazel idly flips through the pages of the book, unable to understand a word. He tosses it aside. On the sill beside where the book had once been, a leather bound notebook rests. Curious, Azazel takes it and opens it. 

Inside, a loose leaf page falls out. Azazel takes it, skimming over handwriting he recognizes as Eustace’s, the snobby rich art curator. It appears to be a letter of some kind, addressed to the general. It mostly talks about weather and politics and art, but there is a paragraph that gives him pause: it mentions him by name. And it’s a long, long paragraph.

Running through it reveals that Eustace was doing nothing but moaning and whining about Azazel stealing—allegedly stealing, mind you—his priceless glass Articuno. He rants and raves about Azazel for a good page, calling him a no-good thief and blaming his lack of character on his upbringing at Beggar’s Hole. Azazel rolls his eyes. What a little bitch. 

On the journal’s pages, he finds unfamiliar handwriting. It’s cursive, scrawled elegantly onto the pages, and the vocabulary is extensive. Some of the words, Azazel can’t even read. Guess that’s to be expected when he hardly learned how to read or write, anyhow. He flips through a few pages, skimming the material. Turning back to the front cover, he reads, 

Journal of General Thurston Rambugnon III.

Makes sense, he supposes, that the general would write all fancy like that. He flips a few pages, reading through what he can. The language is flowery and frivolously long, and it mostly gives him a headache, but he can pick out the main themes. Usually, the general is writing about the weather or some boring rich person he met with that day. He writes about business and politics and war. There’s a weird passage about some cannibalistic ocean clan that he faced off against; that was kinda interesting. Extensively, he details the importance of having a pristine reputation. Azazel mostly skips through all of this, not really reading any of the content. It’s mostly mundane, anyways. What he does pause to read is an entry that mentions Alistair. 

'Alistair Laurembert and I, happily engaged, will enjoy our wedding and subsequent honeymoon on Bloomfield Island, in the town of Skystead. Alistair has remarked that the island is a strange place for us to hold our wedding, but I know he will grow to love it.'

Yes, as he will grow to love many things, Azazel thinks to himself. He skims through the rest of the page, mostly finding that he discusses the climate and the scenery of the island for a whole paragraph. He turns the page. 

'I told Alistair that I have ordered a library be built in our new summer estate. I was blessed to see one of his rare smiles. Hopefully, I will continue to see more. He is so beautiful when he smiles.'

Azazel frowns slightly, his mind drifting to the fight last night. It’s a strange juxtaposition to have, watching them argue and then reading through one of their deepest affections for the other. He flips the page, finding nothing but more talk of his reputation. He turns several pages aside. 

'Alistair and I walked in the gardens of our summer estate for the first time. He was surprised to see that I had filled the gardens with his favorite flowers. I hope, through these small actions, he will come to see how dearly I cherish him.'

He skims through several other pages of writing before closing the journal. He tosses it carelessly to the floor, bored. He looks to the window sill for anything else interesting lying around. There is one more thing: a small stack of loose leaf papers. Azazel takes them, scanning over the writing. 

It’s not Thurston’s handwriting, whose cursive is elegant in a stiff, business-like manner. The cursive is gorgeous, like art, swooping and caressing across the page. He doesn’t even read the words for a second; he just appreciates it. His eyes drift to the bottom of the paper, where he finds a signature. 

'Alistair R. Laurembert.' 

Of course it’s Alistair’s. After hearing his singing in the garden the other day, he should’ve expected nothing less. 

Actually paying attention to the words this time, he reads through the writing. It’s a poem, he realizes, and a really well-written one at that. But it’s depressing as hell. All it talks about are lonely palaces and withering flowers. 

“Prying is a hobby of yours, I see.” 

Azazel looks up to find Alistair in the entryway. His expression is tight and unpleased. Floating curtly over to him, he snatches the poem out of his hands and collects his things. 

“Sorry, wasn’t trying to snoop,” he says, putting his hands up defensively. “Your poetry is great, though.” 

“Hmm.” Alistair’s tone is deadpan. A poem in his hands slips to the floor. Azazel picks it up, glancing over it. 

“You should publish it,” he suggests, handing it to him. “You should publish all of them.” 

Shortly: “The general wouldn’t like that.” 

A pause. 

“Is everything okay between you guys?” Azazel asks. “After last night, I mean.” 

Alistair huffs, sitting beside him but opening a book to indicate that he’s not interested in him. “Nothing is ever okay between us.” 

Azazel considers what to do with such a statement. 

“You know,” he begins, “The general’s journal—” 

A scoff escapes Alistair. “You mean that old thing he writes in so religiously? All he talks about is the weather.” 

“And you,” Azazel adds, and Alistair turns to glare at him. 

“So. You really were snooping.” 

“Well—okay, maybe I did read the general’s journal and your poems, but it was a complete accident.” 

“An accident, you say.” 

“Listen: all I’m saying is that he writes about you a lot. He seems to really love you,” he insists, and Alistair scowls and looks away. “I’m not gonna try to convince you to love him back, but—” 

“Good. You cannot.” 

“—but do you think you ever could love him?” 

“No,” Alistair responds, grim and cold. He glares at his book as if the words on the page are acting out of line. “Love is not a one way street.” 

“Maybe you just need time,” he suggests, and Alistair’s frown deepens. “How long have you been engaged?” 

“Ten years.” 

“Ten…?” Azazel utters, his words trailing off as his mind goes blank. “Wait. How old are you?” 

“Twenty three.” 

It only takes a second for him to do the math in his head, but for whatever reason, his brain refuses to accept the answer. 

“You’ve been engaged to him… since you were thirteen?” Azazel asks, somewhere between horror and abhorrence. Nausea roils in his gut. “He had to have been almost fifty at the time of your engagement—that’s—that’s disgusting—” 

Azazel cuts himself off when he sees Alistair’s face burn with humiliation. 

“Wait, wait,” he says hastily, sitting straighter as Alistair closes his book and rises to leave. “I’m not disgusted with you, that’s not what I… it’s not your fault. You were just a kid; you didn’t deserve that.” 

A moment of tense silence passes them by. Eventually, Alistair sits again. 

Shamefully, he explains, “My father is a politician. He only thinks of how to get ahead. When the general first saw me, he asked my father for my hand in marriage. My father accepted, because marrying into the general’s family would bring him great power. He didn’t stop to think about how it would affect me. He didn’t stop to think about how wrong it was. And just like that, I was scheduled to marry the general at eighteen.” 

“Eighteen,” Azazel repeats, unable to fathom it. He sits there, dumbfounded for a long, drawn out minute. Then, suddenly snapping out of it, he wonders, “Wait, if you were supposed to be married at eighteen, how are you still not married now?” 

“Simple,” Alistair responds, “I’ve pushed the wedding date back every chance I get.” 

Azazel leans forward. “Why don’t you just break the engagement?” 

“Two reasons. The contract is between the general and my father. I have little power to break it,” he explains. “Second, this contract is an oath. A promise. And I do not shirk promises, it is against my sense of right.” 

Azazel blinks. 

“Uh,” he says, arching a brow, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Alistair stares at him, offended. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Who cares if it’s an oath, a promise, whatever,” Azazel says, “Promises mean nothing. Break it. Who cares?” 

Alistair gapes at him as if he murdered a baby. Aghast and enraged, he rises, casting his book aside. “Of course, I couldn’t expect you of all people to understand. Only someone so lawless and despicable could treat the sanctity of a vow so carelessly.” 

“All right, fine, get back on your high horse,” he spits, eyebrows furrowed, “But at least I’m not the one ruining my life because a piece of paper tells me to.” 

Alistair turns to him, his eyes livid. 

“Get out,” he hisses, breathless like he’s been punched in the gut. “Get out, now. Out of this estate, out of my sight!” 

Azazel stands to his feet, shoving past Alistair. He storms through the house, past Pepin, past all the ostentatious rich shit he’ll never steal, and he slams the door behind him. He’ll gladly oblige to this one demand, and he won’t look back.


	5. The Unfortunate Incident

If Azazel could go to the inn, he would. But the stupid general’s stupid wedding requests forbid any ‘common folk’ from entering the inn now that the stupid rich guests are beginning to arrive. So, Azazel’s at the bar. And he’s had a drink or two. Or three. Or… how do numbers work again? 

Muriel, the bartender and the worst grumpig alive at this very moment, walks over to him and suggests, “Hey, why don’t ya cool it on the drinks, Azazel.” 

Sloshing his half empty drink around in his cup, he slurs, “Why don’t you shut up.” 

She rolls her eyes at him, taking his empty glasses away. His head lolls downward, and he blinks blearily at his glass like he’s never seen it before. Throwing his head back, he takes another swig and slams the cup down. He figures the general or Savaric or Grimald will come chasing after him eventually. To hell with all them. He’ll fight them right here and now; he’s not going back to that estate. 

The stage at the front of the bar lights up. The loud chatter in the room dies down, and everyone turns their attention up front. Everyone in town knows what time it is when the bar gets silent like this. It’s time for Adallinda to sing. 

The curtains on stage draw back, revealing Adallinda, a middle-aged altaria. If not for Felicia’s Inn, Adallinda would’ve easily made the bar the most popular place in town. Her voice is like velvety heaven and the way she moves her body is almost too sensual to be legal. Sometimes, people don’t even come to the bar to drink. They just want to watch her show. 

Perched on a polished stool, Adallinda allows her glossy, cloud-like wings to flutter. Gazing into the hushed crowd with seductive, lidded eyes, she tilts her head and begins to sing. Like she’s a siren, the room is immediately drawn to her.

The song is a heartbreaking blues song about heartbreak or some other… heartbreaking thing. He can’t really understand her words; his head is too foggy. But he can understand her tone and her expression and her body language, and he connects with it. When her voice cracks with devastation, his heart cracks along with it. The song is sweeping him up in its melancholy melody. 

Clearly, she’s a great singer. The best. Even sober Azazel could recognize her talent. But right now, sitting on this stiff bar stool and getting more miserable with every drink, drunk Azazel wishes Alistair was the one up there singing. 

He tries to cast Alistair out of his mind. But the more he tries to get him out, the harder he sticks. 

Gunnora’s always said she has a sixth sense for when Azazel’s up to dumb shit. Like getting drunk at three in the afternoon. He’s never really believed her until she bursts through the bar doors just to glare at him. 

She makes her way to him, careful not to disturb people watching the show. When she arrives, she sits next to him and pushes his drink across the table. Pathetically, he lays down and slaps his hand on the table in an attempt to grab it again. 

“Dude, you’ve had enough,” she states. 

“Man, shut up,” he moans, slumping back in his seat. A nearby patron shushes them. 

Whispering, Gunnora asks, “Are you really skipping out on the general’s protection again? Why?” 

His brain replays the fight with Alistair. Actually, it doesn’t really replay it. It just brings it up again, like it’s rubbing it in his face. Sighing, he drops his head on the table. 

Adallinda’s song deepens, like it’s digging its way to the depths of his heart. It unlocks emotions Azazel didn’t know he had, feelings he didn’t know existed. Her poignant tone evokes every tragedy in the room, from a lost loved one to a child’s worst birthday party. Azazel never cries. Never. But he’s feeling something welling up inside him. 

When Adallinda finishes, she leaves the room with a lingering sense of sorrow. To the very last note, she pricks Azazel’s heart with despair. Now that she’s finished, everyone’s cheering and clapping. How can they suddenly be so happy again? What’s wrong with them? Don’t they know that everything’s terrible? 

“I’m so sad, Gunn,” he croaks, and she sighs, patting his back. “I haven’t been able to steal a single thing from the general.” 

“Come on, dude,” she says, tugging on his arm. He doesn’t move. “I’m gonna take you back to Dad’s dojo and get you sobered up.” 

In the seat beside Gunnora, someone sits. Rather, they fall. Their weight is so heavy that when they plop themselves down, the table quivers. Based on that and the stench of bad cigars and cheap beer, Azazel doesn’t even have to look up to know who they’re dealing with. He does, anyways, just to glare at his big, fat, ugly face. 

Geoffrey. Everyone knows Geoffrey. He prides himself on being the town sleaze, and on being the absolute most garbage person alive. The slaking is currently picking his teeth with a fingernail, digging a lump of spinach out. He inspects it for a moment, then flicks it away. 

Even worse than dealing with Geoffrey is dealing with all his buddies on top of that. Luckily, due to his trashy personality, he doesn’t have many of them. Unluckily, that means his friends are just as repulsive. Three of them hang around him like leeches: a charmeleon, a weezing, and a simisear. Azazel can’t remember any of their names, but he can remember how gross they are. And if he needed a reminder, the charmeleon just burped in someone’s face. 

The four of them are like a nasty, sleazy gang, with Geoffrey being their supreme leader. And by far, Geoffrey is the undisputed king of being disgusting and vulgar. With a crass grin, he waggles his eyebrows at Gunnora and asks, “You come here often, baby?” 

Azazel narrows his eyes at him, a scowl tugging on his face. This guy is worse than awful. He’s breathing uncomfortably loud and hot and clearly running his eyes all over her. Azazel would like nothing more than to smash his head into the table, but he doesn’t. He knows if Gunnora wanted to beat him to a pulp, she could with her hands tied. And if she decides to take him on, she knows he’ll be right behind her. So, he stays seated and resorts to glowering at the sleazebag until she gives the fighting orders. This isn’t the first creepy bar guy they’ve dealt with together.

Still, sober Gunnora has a lot more patience than drunk Gunnora. And drunk Gunnora has twice the patience of drunk Azazel. She’s let Geoffrey get away with at least three hideously crass comments now without even punching him a little. And the comments just keep coming. Azazel’s fingers are itching to curl into a fist. 

“Ya know,” Geoffrey says, leaning against the table and spreading his arms along it. Muriel gives him a disapproving glare that he ignores. “I just thought of something that would be super hot.” 

Gunnora sighs, downing the rest of Azazel’s drink. Geoffrey has that effect on people. “What.” 

“Threesome. You, me, and that Laurembert guy,” he replies. Azazel’s head shoots up so fast he makes himself dizzy. “Ya gotta admit, he’s sexy as hell. Man oh man, if he wasn’t engaged to the general, I’d take him to pound town before you could even say—” 

Azazel lunges out of his seat, tackling Geoffrey off his stool. 

A chorus of gasps and yelps erupt from the bar when Geoffrey hits the ground. As soon as Azazel gathers his drunken bearings and can prop himself up, he slugs Geoffrey in the face. Another round of cries rise up. 

From Geoffrey’s side, the charmeleon bellows, “Bar fight!”

The fire-type is promptly kicked in the face and shot straight through the ceiling. 

Gunnora lowers her leg, slamming Azazel’s empty glass back on the counter. The weezing and the simisear tremble in fear. With a rogue grin and a wild glint in her eyes, she growls, “Let’s go.” 

Chaos springs from the tension as fast as a strike of lighting. Azazel gleefully resumes his task of beating Geoffrey senseless while Gunnora takes on his other two pals. A crowd of people eagerly push and shove each other to get the best view of the bloodbath. Muriel and other bar workers struggle to stop the fight. But there’s no stopping it now, no way. Azazel’s not stopping until Geoffrey’s face is black and blue. 

With a large, meaty hand that’s as big as Azazel’s torso, Geoffrey grabs him and flings him aside. Azazel slams into the ground, skidding and tumbling into the shins of some onlookers. They utter, startled yet excited, backing away. Both Azazel and Geoffrey rise, staring each other down. Geoffrey’s nose drips blood. 

Suddenly, the simisear goes flying through the air between them. The crowd hastily parts, watching the fire-type smash a crater into the far wall. Like a stuck pancake, he slowly peels off the wall and flops to the floor. He doesn’t get back up. 

Gunnora releases an unruly battle cry after having demolished the simisear, leaping onto a table. The crowd gawks at her with mix of fear and reverence and awe. The weezing gapes at her with just fear. Grabbing a chair, Gunnora lunges into the air and prepares to bring it down on his head. 

Azazel doesn’t get to see the outcome. Geoffrey makes his presence rudely known, punting Azazel into the display of liquor behind the counter. Glass smashes all around him and alcohol dumps over his head. When he hits the ground, Geoffrey is climbing over the bar with fire in his eyes, ready to punch his lights out. For some reason, Azazel has no sense of urgency. He suspects it’s the alcohol.

Geoffrey leaps at him, aiming a fist at his face. Azazel should jump and run, but his legs aren’t feeling it. Instead, he sinks straight into the ground, leaving Geoffrey to punch a wooden floor covered in shards of glass. Popping back out of the ground behind him, Azazel is pleased to hear him howling in pain. 

Furiously, Geoffrey swings his fist around, slugging him in the gut. Azazel hits the ground, slamming his head on the bottom corner of the bar. Stabbing pain shoots through his skull, and for a moment, he can’t see anything. His vision returns in fragments, but everything remains blurry. 

With his head ringing and the world around him spinning, standing back up is an impossible feat. He props himself on his arms only to fall again, slicing his hand on a stray sliver of glass. In the corner of his eye, he sees Geoffrey stand. At full height, he towers over him. He feels Geoffrey’s eyes on him like hot coals, but he can’t get up to meet his glare. A sneer makes its way on the slaking’s face. With a disgusting look of triumph, he raises his foot over Azazel’s head and prepares to finish him off. 

In a blur, Gunnora lunges across the bar and tackles him to the ground. 

Cheers and hoots roar from the crowd. Gunnora seems to be a fan favorite. She straddles Geoffrey, slamming her fists into his face and knocking his head side to side. Blood sprays from every impact and even a tooth shoots out in the fray, but Gunnora doesn’t stop. That is, not until he wails, 

“Mercy! Mercy!” 

Then, she stands, leaving him sniveling and whimpering on the ground. Stepping over to Azazel, she picks him up by the scruff of his neck and inspects him. Without opening his eyes or moving his head up, he offers her a thumbs up to show he’s alive. 

The bar explodes into an uproar, and Gunnora pounds proudly on her chest and points to Azazel triumphantly. Really, she’s the victor of this battle. He mostly got his drunken ass kicked. 

“That is quite enough!” Muriel shouts, clearing a path with sheer rage alone. Marching furiously up to them, she points an accusing finger in Gunnora’s face and spits, “You and Azazel: get out! Don’t come back ‘til tomorrow, ya hear?!” 

They’re promptly thrown out on the street along with the sleazes who had the nerve to fight them. All four of them are lying on the ground in a quivering, pathetic heap. Gunnora gives Geoffrey a kick in the side for good measure, tossing Azazel over her shoulder. She begins walking down the street. 

“You’re so stroooong, Gunn,” he slurs, his eyes closed. He bumps and jostles along with her gait. “Wow. Wow. Woooow. You’re the strongest ever.” 

“I know, dude.” 

“Where we goin’?” 

“I’m taking you to my Dad’s dojo,” she replies, and he groans. He doesn’t want a long lecture from Fulk right now. “We’re gonna get you sobered up.” 

The walk takes much, much shorter than it should have. It’s like she teleported, or flew, or time traveled. Or, maybe he just took a short nap on the way. Regardless, they end up at the dojo extremely fast, and Azazel’s head is still spinning. He’d been hoping to put up a facade of soberness before Fulk saw him. But, yeah. That’s probably not happening now. Oh well. 

They enter the back door of the dojo. When Azazel asks why, she tells him she didn’t want any of her dad’s dojo patrons to see him like this. “There’s a lot of kids, Azazel,” she reminds. She ends up tossing him rather unceremoniously on a cot in a dusty corner room. He coughs, whether from the dust or the impact, he can’t quite tell. Gunnora walks down the hall and talks with someone for a million years. Azazel stares at the ceiling and waits for her to come back. 

Eventually, Gunnora and Fulk walk in. Fulk has a fresh cup of coffee and a few crackers. When he sees Azazel, he allows himself a long-suffering sigh. He hands the food and drink to him wordlessly, and Azazel slides off the cot to sit on the floor and take it. He nibbles on the crackers. They’re bland and gross. 

“Oh, Azazel,” Fulk exhales, sitting in front of him. Gunnora exits the room to train the students in her father’s place. Patting Azazel’s head the way a father might endearingly treat their child, Fulk asks, “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Just toss me in the dumpster,” Azazel grunts, slouching and slurping his coffee. “I’ll be fine.” 

Fulk retracts his hand, shaking his head. He regards Azazel with a certain look, and that’s how he knows Fulk is gearing up for one of his spiels again. 

“My boy,” he begins, “What mark do you want to leave on the world? When you leave this Earth, how do you want people to remember your name? Don’t you want to leave an impact that people with appreciate?” 

Azazel slumps even more. “Not everybody gets to be a great war vet like you.” 

A sadness pools into Fulk’s eyes, but he still smiles. “That’s not what I want to be remembered for.” 

Gesturing to the room around them, Fulk continues, “I want to be remembered for this place. I want to be remembered for my wife’s inn. I want to be remembered as a great husband and father. The best marks I left on this world are through my family. My family is everything to me, and I’d do anything to protect them, keep them safe, and be remembered for how much I loved them. I don’t care for the marks I left as a soldier. Honestly, I’d rather people forget that part of my life.” 

“Why?” 

Fulk seems surprised, as if no one’s ever asked before. Then, after pondering his next words carefully like one might set off a bomb, he responds, “I’ve done things there that I’m… not proud of. And that’s why I’d like to be remembered for my family, who I couldn’t be more proud of.” 

Azazel stares at him, long and hard. He munches on the last bite of his cracker, deep in thought. When he swallows it, he proclaims, “I wanna be remembered as the guy who robs the general.” 

Fulk drops his head into his hand. He sighs. 

A soft knock on the door interrupts them. 

“Pardon my intrusion,” Alistair says, hovering in the entryway. “Gunnora led me here. I’ve come to return Azazel to the estate before the general discovers he’s missing.” 

Suddenly, Azazel feels sober again. He looks away from Alistair, opting to stare at the last drops of his coffee. 

“Of course,” Fulk says, standing. “Please don’t let the general find out. If he does, blame it on us here at the dojo.” 

Alistair nods, floating into the room. Then, abruptly, he stops, as if he’s trespassing. After a moment of deliberation, he offers Azazel a stiff hand to help him stand. Azazel stands without it. 

They leave through the backdoor, which almost has Alistair looking scandalized. He’s probably never been through a back door in his life. Leaving the dojo quickly plunges them into darkness, as the sun has just begun to set far on the horizon. Alistair holds an oil lamp to light up their path. They walk side by side. They don’t say a word. 

Alistair looks like he wants to say something, and Azazel knows he himself wants to say something, he just doesn’t know what. So, he keeps his mouth shut. He stares at the ground as he walks, refusing to glance at the man beside him. 

With every step, he feels more sober. The dawning realization that he’s returning to his week-long prison is shooting icy dread through his veins and waking him up. He can’t believe he’s doing this to himself. All for what? To live? 

He’s pretty sure being in the general’s estate hasn’t helped him in anyway. Savaric and Grimald are nothing more than stoic, impersonal babysitters and the general is nothing more than a creepy old pervert. The so-called protection he’s received has been more of a nuisance, and he’s made absolutely no progress with his theft. These two weeks have been downright awful. And if the general realizes he ran off today, he could be looking at a third. 

Involuntarily, he sighs. Could he call off the arrangement with the general? Would the general allow that? Who knows, he might even be happy to get rid of Azazel. He has been a real pain in the neck for him. Maybe they could come to a new arrangement: leave each other alone. 

They exit the town square, walking down the winding road toward the estate. The buildings and town lights begin to fade, and soon, it’s just them and a street. The only light is the lamp in Alistair’s hand. Even the moon is covered by thick clouds. In the distance, he can see the estate looming on the hill. It’s dark inside. The gardens look like shadows. 

A shriek pierces the night. When Alistair and Azazel whirl around to face the source, they’re met with a butterfree charging straight for Azazel. 

At the last second, Azazel ducks and avoids the hit. Alistair gasps, backing away as the butterfree climbs up to take another dive at him. With one closer look at the butterfree, he confirms it: she’s the same one who attacked him that first night. 

When she turns sharply toward him, her fangs bared, he lunges aside and shouts, “Alistair, go! Get the general!” 

“You can’t handle this yourself!” He snaps back, stubbornly staying in place. When the butterfree returns, Alistair swings the oil lamp at her. She narrowly misses it, twisting away to regain speed and strike again. 

When she swoops back down, Azazel slashes at her with a claw. He cuts into her wing, forcing her to lean to the side and spiral out of control. She hurtles through the air, plummeting off the oceanside cliff. Azazel runs to the edge to ensure she fell, but the moment he takes a step, the croagunk from before leaps from the cliffside and onto the road. 

She throws a jab at him, which he barely avoids. Like lightning, she swipes at him again, and he doesn't have the reaction time to evade it. She knocks him flat on his back, standing on his chest to keep him in place. Just as she’s about to land another hit, he grabs her ankle and yanks it aside just as Alistair clocks her in the face with the lamp. 

Staggering back, she throws her hands up in a defensive position just as Azazel jumps up and swings at her. She retaliates with a punch of her own that Azazel narrowly dodges. Another hit comes flying at him, and it buries itself in his gut. He stumbles back, involuntarily allowing Alistair to step forward and heave the lamp at her once more. She ducks, jabbing at his chest. He’s hit, but then he uses his mind to levitate her and throw her down the street. She hits the ground far off, skidding to a stop somewhere behind the thick blanket of fog. 

“Hurry!” Alistair cries, racing to the estate. Azazel follows right behind him. 

The ground pounds against his feet as he flees. Behind him, he hears the fast footsteps of someone else gaining on them. The footsteps stop suddenly when the person behind them jumps. 

They land, an unfamiliar pancham, blocking their path. She wastes no time attacking them, throwing wild, reckless, brazen punches. They’re easier to avoid than the croagunk’s, but when they hit, they hurt like hell. He’s only been hit twice, and there’s already an unimaginable throbbing pain in those places. 

Alistair attempts his luck at using the lamp as a weapon once more, but the pancham catches it and crushes it in her hands. Swiping it from Alistair, she throws it aside, casting it into the ocean. Now plunged into near total darkness, they fight blindly. 

Azazel takes advantage of the poor visibility and sinks into the ground. Slipping through the earth, he pops up behind the pancham and cuffs her in the back of the head. She stumbles forward, only to be met with a sharp strike from Alistair. Azazel kicks her from behind, and she falls to one knee. Just as Azazel raises a hand to bring her down, she reveals a smoke bomb in her hand. 

The area around them explodes with fumes, the content hissing out of the package. It plumes and irritates Azazel’s eyes, forcing hacking coughs out of him. Somewhere in the haze, he hears Alistair coughing. But he can’t see him. Instead, emerging from the mist is a pair of red eyes attached to a massive body. Arms reach out towards him. 

He slips away just in time, and smoke cuts away to reveal a gengar. She leers at him maliciously, her eyes burning. She leaps at him, and he sinks into the ground. However, she reaches her hand into the soil and grabs him, yanking him back out and throwing him. 

The ground hits harder than he expected, and he winces on impact. The last wisps of smoke curl around him as they dissipate into the air, and the gengar marches toward him with a scowl on her face. Before she reaches him, though, Alistair swoops in and tosses her aside with his mental powers. She goes tumbling into the bushes. 

“How is this possible?” Azazel demands, his voice weary and ragged as he forces himself to his feet. “How are there this many people who want me dead?!” 

“There can’t be this many people,” Alistair declares, his eyes narrowed with thought. “This has to be a trick, or an illusion, or—” 

Alistair’s analysis is cut short by someone slamming into Azazel from behind. 

He tumbles and smashes into a rock, hissing in pain as he shakily stands. A drapion, looming above them, snaps her claws menacingly. Alistair prepares to strike her, but she snatches him up with a claw before he’s given the chance. Alistair struggles in vain, his arms pinned to his sides and unable to phase through her hand. Scraping together what he can, he levitates a fist sized rock and hurls it at her head. It’s enough to irritate, but not enough to do real damage. Still, she retaliates like he delivered a devastating blow by delivering one of her own. 

With her free claw, she grips his left arm and tears it off. 

Alistair’s scream rips through the night and straight into Azazel’s core, making him shudder from head to toe. The drapion tosses his severed arm aside carelessly, leaving it to leak black ichor onto the cobblestone. No longer attached to his body, the arm slowly begins to disintegrate. 

Visceral terror prompts Azazel into action. He races up to the drapion, leaping into the air to slug her in the face. She draws an arm back just in time to bat him out of the air, slamming him into the floor. He tumbles and rolls right back to the rock he’d started at. Weakly, he puts a hand on the rock to steady himself and stand. His weakness, frighteningly, isn’t just from the hits he’s taken. 

He gazes down at his free hand, finding it difficult to focus his eyes. His one hand becomes two, and then four. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head and struggles to regain his composure. Teetering, he stands. The world around him spins. He doesn’t understand. Where is this coming from? He’s certain he sobered up.   
“Being a poison-type is a true gift,” the drapion rasps, her voice low and gravelly. Azazel forces his body to step toward her, only for it to stumble. “So many discreet ways to kill someone, so many toxins at my disposal.” 

He staggers toward her, or at least, one of the two images he sees of her. A shaky hand reaches out to her, then he realizes it’s his shaky hand. He forms a fist, but black spots begin to dance in his vision and cloud his brain. He falls on one knee. 

She laughs. “This is almost too easy.” 

Stubborn and not yet finished, Alistair’s mental powers flare to life. Before he can even throw anything at her, she takes her free claw and buries it into Alistair’s left eye. Alistair’s anguished scream echoes through Azazel’s pounding brain. 

She flicks Alistair’s ichor off her claw. Alistair, limp, drips black from his missing eye and gushes it from his side. Azazel falls, catching himself with a hand. With a callous smirk, she saunters toward him. His entire body trembles as he fights to stand. The toxin inside him is blurring his vision and making him sick. Sicker, and sicker, and blurrier, and blurrier; she only gets closer. 

He can’t move. This is it. 

The world around him begins to go dark and blurry and noiseless when out of nowhere, a familiar lopunny jump kicks the drapion in the face. Instinctively, the drapion drops Alistair, and he falls to the ground beside Azazel. Gunnora stands between them and the killer, her fists up and ready to fight. 

Azazel’s vision is closing in like a cone. He can’t see the battle, he can’t hear the battle. All he can see is Alistair, on the ground, gasping with pain and surrounded by his own ichor and struggling to pick himself up. All he can hear is the agonized grunts and cries Alistair makes with each second of suffering that goes by. With the last of his strength, he pulls himself to Alistair. 

“Why?” He croaks, his throat raw and closing up. “Your arm, your eye—why? Why stay? We’re not even friends.” 

Alistair, with his eye gouged out and black ichor all over his face, somehow looks more devastated. 

“We’re not?” 

The world goes dark.


	6. What We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you're enjoying reading so far. Just wanted to let you know that I will be out of town next week, so there will be NO UPDATE on Thursday. I will return the following Thursday with an update for you. Thanks!

Waking up in the infirmary brought Azazel less pain than he thought it would. The medics must’ve really done their job, because he only has a few aches here and there. His wounds are mended, the toxins are flushed out of his system, and he’s easily able to sit up and munch on the saltine crackers they gave him. Unfortunately, the medics can’t do much about how painful it is to suffer through the general’s newest tantrum. 

Incensed and outraged, the general paces his room in the infirmary and shouts, “You think you’d learn, after a week of house arrest, to remain where you are expected to!” 

Azazel sighs, dropping his chin in his hand and staring at the general with glazed over, impassive eyes. 

“Instead, you have disregarded every measure set forth for your own good, abandoned the estate at your first chance, and have nearly gotten yourself killed!” 

He glances down at his bowl of saltines, lazily inspecting it. It’s more interesting than the general’s fit, anyhow. Azazel couldn’t care less about that perverted creep and his feelings. 

“And worse!” The general roars, stopping to slam a fist down on the back railing of Azazel’s bed. Azazel studies his crackers a moment longer before allowing his eyes to drift, casually, to him. Shaking and seething, the general hisses, “You have dragged my fiancé into danger, nearly costing his life.” 

He returns General Thurston’s furious glare with a cool, indifferent stare of his own. He fights against his impulse to turn his head and glance to the left wall, where Alistair’s hospital room rests behind. He does not wonder how Alistair is doing. And by no means does he worry. 

No. Not one bit. 

After a long, tense minute of fuming silence, General Thurston removes his hand from the bed railing. There’s a dent in the frame. 

“I hope you’ve learned something valuable today,” he bites out, his voice trembling with rage. “Although, I suspect you haven’t. It seems you’ll never change.” 

A pleasant smile creeps on Azazel’s face. “Yeah. Probably not.” 

Indignation flares in General Thurston’s face. His expression seems torn, as if he’s debating whether or not to kill him on the spot. Eventually, he decides to clasp his hands behind his back, as if for his own self-control, and sharply turns out of the room. 

The moment he storms through the door, a flood of people come rushing in. Not just any people: his people. Gunnora and her entire family fill the room, all twelve of them, and they all talk at once. The little boys ask eagerly if the fight was cool. The little girls ask if he killed anyone. Even Fulk and Felicia join in the frantic interrogation, leaving only Gunnora to try and calm everyone down. The sudden commotion is making Azazel’s head spin. 

They finally settle to a degree, asking questions one at a time. 

“Who attacked you?” 

“How did they get away from Gunnora?” 

“Are you okay?” 

The last one makes him pause. Physically, he’s fine. But his eyes won’t stop drifting to the left wall. 

Felicia hurries over to him with a folded quilt, opening it up and spreading it over his bed. Fiddling with it incessantly to ensure it’s just perfect, she frets, “I was up all night worrying about you; all I could do was quilt this old thing together for you.” 

Azazel runs a hand over the hem, stunned. “You made a whole quilt in one night?” 

“I actually made five,” she answers, breathless and haggard, “I was so anxious.” 

A chorus of agreements rise up from the family, all sharing their stories of fright from last night. Everyone sounds like they had been wrought with fear. Fulk lectures him—lovingly, of course—about making an old man like him worry so much. Felicia keeps wringing her hands together and asking if he’s about to pass out every time he closes his eyes. One of the children even climbs into his bed and snuggles close to him. He assures them all he’s doing fine, even lifting the youngest child in the air to prove it. 

They make him promise a bunch of ridiculous things. Promise to go to bed early tonight, promise to get lots of fresh air, promise to eat well, all those sorts of caring, nagging things. He promises to all of them, knowing he probably won’t follow through on any of them. But it makes them feel better and it makes the strain wash out of them, so that’s good enough. 

As the hour carries on, mandatory daily tasks make themselves known. Felicia returns to her inn with great reluctance, squeezing Azazel half to death before she leaves the room. The older children go with her to help around the inn, and the younger children race off to play. Fulk prepares to leave for the dojo, but before he steps out the door, he pauses. 

Turning to Azazel, he says, “I’m not sure the general has been much of a help. If you’d like, you could stay at the inn for a while instead. Gunnora and I could keep watch for you.” 

As nice as it would be, getting out of that stuffy estate forever, Azazel knows he can’t. Going to them would only put them in more danger, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he replies, and Fulk frowns slightly. Azazel waves a hand dismissively as if he can brush his worries away. “I’ll stay with the general. I mean, how else am I gonna steal something from him?” 

“Don’t put up your nonchalant facade with me, you know it won’t work,” Fulk scolds, crossing his arms. “Really, Azazel—you’re family, and you know I’d do anything for my family. We have more than enough room in our home for you.” 

It’s a generous offer, and that’s why Azazel will never take it. Still, he lies, “I’ll consider it.” 

Fulk sighs. He must sense his lie, but he doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he advises, “Just… stay away from the general. He seems to be doing more harm than good.”

Now there’s something they can agree on. Azazel nods and waves, and Fulk leaves the building. Just Gunnora stays behind. She promptly punches his arm. Hard. 

“Ow!” 

“You scared me, dude!” She yells, dropping into a chair beside his bed. “Thought you were gonna die.” 

“Sorry, Gunn,” he says. “And thanks for saving my butt.” 

“That drapion was tough. She really did a number on my arm,” she admits, rubbing her shoulder tenderly. Then, giving him a serious, grave look, she adds, 

“Something really, really weird is going on around here.” 

“Uh… yeah. I’ve noticed.” 

“Not just the people trying to kill you,” she insists, and he sits a little straighter, at full attention. “Early this morning, a dead body was found at the cliffside.” 

Azazel’s eyes widen. If it were found in the Underside, he wouldn’t bat an eye. But the cliffside? The most scenic and rich part of town? It’s unheard of. 

“The body is unfamiliar. No one can identify them; they’re not from around here,” Gunnora continues. “I only got a glance at them before they were taken to the morgue. They’ve got a huge gash on their cheek.” 

A gang of killers, targeting him for some unknown reason. A stranger, murdered and dumped in the safest part of town. What’s going on? 

“You said they’re in the morgue, right under us?” He asks. She nods. Hopping out of bed, he says, “Then let’s go.” 

“Woah, woah, dude. Isn’t it a little early for you to be getting out of bed?” She wonders. He scoffs in response. “And don’t you want to check on Alistair, first?” 

He pauses. 

“...No,” he says, carefully. He stares hard at the path ahead of him so his eyes won’t look to the left wall. “Let’s just get to the bottom of this.” 

They poke their heads out the door, hopping back inside as a medic passes by. When she’s waddled down the hall and disappeared from view, they dart out of his room and hurry to the stairs. Creeping down, Azazel shivers as it gets darker and colder. The freezers come into view, and he can’t help but shudder knowing what’s in them. 

They step over a chain with a sign that reads, ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’. 

The morgue isn’t as eerie looking as he’d thought it would be. That almost makes it worse. It’s professional, clean. He wonders how a place that’s seen so much death could be so pristine. It’s almost like the immaculate presentation of the room is compensating for the off-putting things occurring inside. 

Walking through the room, they read the names listed on the body freezers. Ulric R., Emeline J., Winifred G., and so on and so forth. He reads until he finds what he’s looking for: Jane Doe. Gripping the handle of the cabinet, he yanks it open. 

The platform slides out with a horrifying screech. They wince, freezing and holding their breath, listening to see if anyone heard them. When no one races toward the stairs, they continue with their investigation. 

The body is covered with a white sheet. A perfectly white sheet. A tremor courses through Azazel at the thought of uncovering a dead body. The same tremor goes through Gunnora. They make eye contact. They hold up their hands, rock-paper-scissor style. 

Best two out of three, and Gunnora wins. Azazel groans as she laughs and pumps a fist in the air. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand out to the hem of the sheet. Bracing himself, he rips the sheets aside like ripping off a bandaid. What’s under makes him gasp. 

“The electabuzz,” he utters, staring at her corpse with shock. “I threw her out the window the first night I got attacked!” 

“She looks… awful,” Gunnora grimaces, eyeing her several injuries. 

She’s right. The electabuzz is in bad, bad shape. 

The gash on her cheek that Gunnora had seen earlier is worse than Azazel could’ve imagined. It slices so deep that he’s amazed it didn’t slice straight through to her tongue. Her head and chest have suffered severe blunt force injuries. Minor scrapes cover her from head to toe, and a few major cuts mark her arms and legs. There’s   
bite marks in her flesh. Every wound is an angry shade of red and surrounded in deathly blacks and blues. 

“It looks like she took a huge fall,” Azazel remarks. 

“Makes sense, if she was found at the base of the cliff. Maybe someone pushed her off.” 

Quickly, like touching a hot pan, Azazel pokes the body. Grinning up at Gunnora, he asks, “So, you wanna gut this thing like a jack-o-lantern?” 

She makes a disgusted retching sound, shoving him. He snickers. 

“No way,” she protests. “Besides, we’re not professionals. We wouldn’t even know where to start.” 

“Just get something sharp and stab here,” he jokes, poking the body again. It jiggles slightly. “And here and here.” 

“Ew, stop!” 

“Stop what?” He wonders, poking the corpse repeatedly. 

The body wiggles and quivers like jello, making Gunnora gag. Azazel laughs, until the body begins to melt. 

They jump back. “Uh, what?!” Gunnora sputters, pointing feverishly at the oozing body like Azazel can’t see it. The corpse bubbles and deflates, like it’s dripping to a pile of goo. The bloodied, yellow fur begins to turn a sickly shade of purple and the facial features become squished. The entire body begins to shrivel up, like it’s shrinking. Azazel thinks he’s gonna vomit. 

But before he can do any of that, the revolting, bewildering transformation of the body begins to make more sense. It looks less and less like an electabuzz and more and more like… 

“A ditto?” Azazel says, taking an apprehensive step forward. 

The body has returned to its true form: a gooey, shapeless, purple ditto. Her wounds are still there, clashing with the shade of her skin. The longer Azazel stares at her, the more it all makes sense. 

“That’s what Alistair meant,” he realizes, “When he said it had to be a trick. He was right, it wasn’t a group of people coming after me; it was just one disguised as many!” 

“Dude, this is worse than I thought,” she states, her eyes grim. “Ditto assassin clans are common, so that’s probably where she’s from. If you’ve got one of them after you, you’re in big, big trouble. Ditto clans mean business, and they won’t stop until their target is dead: no matter how many tries it takes.” 

“So, I’ve got a clan of assassins after me. Cool,” he says. “Why?” 

“I don’t know. Someone must’ve paid them to have you taken out.” 

Azazel sighs pensively. This whole tangled mess is starting to get even more confusing. Can’t anything just be straightforward and simple? 

“So, who killed her?” He asks, inspecting the ditto for a brief second. 

She hums with thought. “My guess is maybe she was taken out by her own clan. If she failed enough, maybe they got sick of her incompetence and silenced her.” 

Upstairs, loud footsteps interrupt their conversation. Their eyes dart upward to the floor above them. They keep themselves very, very still as they hear several medics murmuring to each other and making their way toward the stairs. Frantically, Gunnora hisses for them to hide. They cover the body and shove it back into the cooler.   
Tip toeing as fast as they can, they hurry to outpace the medics as they begin their descent. Every step and every utterance echoes through the deadly silent morgue. Gunnora hastily shoves him behind an operating table, ducking beside him. Walking the last few steps, a group of three medics chat. 

“How’s Bob?” 

“Oh, you know.” 

“...No, I don’t. That’s why I asked.” 

The doctors talk about their families and their jobs and their day, casually opening body freezers and examining dead people. Thankfully, they haven’t reached the ditto yet. If they had, they’d know someone messed with it. 

Silently, Gunnora points to the stairs, gesturing for them to sneak back up. Azazel nods. With the doctors’ backs turned to them, they creep out of their hiding spot and slink toward the steps. The moment Azazel gets his foot on one, he nearly races the rest of the way to the top. Gunnora runs behind him, her leg brushing the ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ chain. 

It jingles quietly, but it’s enough for the medics to notice. “Who’s there?” 

They reach the top of the stairs just as the doctors hurry to chase after them. Before they can be seen or caught, they rush into the hallway and enter the nearest room. Slamming the door shut, they press their backs against it and breathe. Close one. 

Azazel’s relieved sigh is quickly choked off when he realizes who’s room they’re in. 

“Azazel?” Alistair utters, stirring from a deep sleep. He struggles to rise with one arm. “Are you quite all right?” 

The words are caught in Azazel’s throat. His focus is entirely captured by the extensive bandages wrapping around Alistair’s body. His left arm is reduced to a stub, his missing eye is covered with gauze. All of that, because of one dead ditto downstairs. It’s sickening. It’s infuriating. He wishes the ditto was alive again. He wishes she was on the loose, still trying to kill him, just so he could hunt her down himself and tear her apart. 

“They will grow back,” Alistair assures, referencing his arm and his eye. “You and I both know ghost-types are rather resilient.” 

“Yeah. Great,” Azazel mutters, opening the door again. The medics are nowhere to be found. “Let’s go, Gunn.” 

“W-wait,” Alistair stammers, struggling to remain upright without his left arm. Reaching out to Azazel with imploring eyes, he pleads, “Stay.” 

Against his will, he glances back into the room. It’s empty. There’s no one sitting in the chairs, no one crowding around the bed, no one smothering him in quilts and questions. The room is so bare it almost seems as if there’s not a patient in it. 

But that doesn’t hold his attention for long. Because his eyes return to Alistair’s wounds. 

He turns back to the door, finding Pepin sitting in the waiting room. Stalking out of the building, he passes Pepin and orders, “Go sit with him.” 

****

The law enforcement station is not far from the infirmary, so he and Gunnora arrive in no time at all. They figure if someone’s going around killing people, the officers would probably be the ones with the most information. Azazel waltzes in the front door, ignoring all the dirty glares. He’s not exactly beloved by officers of the law. 

He and Gunnora walk straight to the back office, where Chief Officer Nigel works. Knocking on the door, he doesn’t even wait for a response before entering. 

“Hey, Officer Nigel,” he greets, a pleasant smile on his face. Nigel’s head shoots up from his desk. “What are you working on—ohhh wow.” 

Red-faced and frantically trying to cover a giant bulletin board with Azazel’s face on it, Nigel shouts, “None of your business!” 

“Is that a conspiracy theory board about me?” 

“No!” Nigel lies, tugging a sheet over it to cover pins and string that connect images and crazy writings. One of the biggest signs reads, ‘HOW does he DO it?!??!?!?!’ 

“I’m impressed. Creeped out, but impressed.” 

“Is there something I can do for you two?” Nigel demands, breathless as he shoves the covered board into the corner. 

“We wanted to ask you some questions,” Gunnora replies, “Considering the murder of the Jane Doe this morning.” 

Hastily, Nigel shushes them. Glancing back and forth, as if someone might have heard them from all the way in this office, he whispers, “We’re kinda keeping hush hush on that right now. Orders from the general. He doesn’t want his wedding guests stressing out, least of all, his groom.” 

“Has anyone even investigated it?” She wonders, astonished. 

“Not yet. Not until the wedding is over.” 

“The general can do that?” 

“Uh, I’m not arguing with him,” Nigel insists, shaking his head. 

“Are you really gonna let a murderer run loose because of someone’s orders?” Gunnora questions, her tone laced with the best guilting tactics. 

Officer Nigel squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “It doesn’t really sit right with me either, but…” 

“Let’s just go take a look,” Azazel urges, already opening the door. “We’ll just walk by the cliffside.” 

Nigel taps his fingers on the desk anxiously. After a moment of deliberation, he stands, grabbing his hat. 

“Well, I suppose one little walk wouldn’t hurt.” 

****

“Do we tell him he’s going the wrong way?” Gunnora asks. Azazel sighs. 

The trip has been full of these blundering mistakes. Honestly, Azazel’s surprised they got down the cliffside and to the beach in one piece. Officer Nigel may be good at his job, but that doesn’t mean he makes it easy for himself. 

“Suspicious,” Nigel says, picking up a pebble and squinting at it. As if it murdered the ditto. Eventually, he decides that pebble isn’t sketchy enough and moves on to the next nefarious rock. “Suspicious.” 

Gunnora and Azazel watch him from a distance. Behind her hand, she mutters, 

“You know, I thought he’d be a little more helpful.” 

“Ah-hah!” Nigel shouts, hopping over to the edge of the rocky beach. “This is where the body was found.” 

Azazel and Gunnora approach the spot. It looks like any other spot. Much less impressive than he’d expect someone’s final resting place to be. He looks up, studying the looming cliffside. If she was shoved off the cliff onto the rocky beach, why stop there? Why not throw the body into the ocean and dispose of it? If this was done by a fellow ditto assassin like Gunnora suggested, wouldn’t they know to hide their kill? He figures he should ask the expert, even if the expert is currently sniffing the ocean for ‘clues’. 

“Nigel,” he starts, “Why wouldn’t the body be disposed of?” 

“Hmm? Oh, it was,” Nigel replies. “The body was first spotted in the ocean, but we thought it was just some garbage gone adrift. The tide washed it right back here.” 

He and Gunnora exchange a glance. Seems like a careless blunder for a high level assassin. 

“Based on the injuries,” Gunnora says, “Who do you think could’ve done this?” 

“Well,” Nigel begins, a hand to his chin, “The blunt force trauma suggests a large fall, so she was likely pushed from a height by her assailant. They were likely larger than her to be able to do so. The gash on her face are more similar to that of an incision rather than a fall, so she likely sustained those in the fight with her assailant. Most of her other wounds were delivered post mortem while she was in the sea; her corpse was probably feasted on by some of the local ocean cannibal clans.” 

“So the assailant had to have sharp claws of some sort,” Azazel concludes. That could be a ditto transformed into… literally any pokémon with claws. Or, it could just be someone with claws. They’re not really making much definitive progress, here. 

“And that’s all we know,” Nigel finishes. 

“That’s it?” Gunnora exclaims. “We know the assailant was larger than an electabuzz and has claws? There’s no one who saw them? No witnesses, nothing?” 

“No witnesses,” Nigel confirms, shaking his head. “But we have the time of death placed two hours before midnight.” 

Mentally, Azazel reruns the night prior. After spending the afternoon and early evening in the bar, he went to the dojo and sobered up. Alistair came to pick him up just as the sun was setting, which had to have been around eight o’clock. They were attacked only a half an hour later, and the fight lasted much less. Assuming they were admitted into the hospital around nine, the assassin was killed an hour later. 

Still, that timeline does nothing for him. Neither does this beach, or the cliff, or the analysis of the injuries. All it’s doing is bringing up more questions that he can’t answer and frustrating him. 

Gunnora looks around. “We’re so close to the general’s estate from here. Do you think he or anyone else could’ve seen what happened? I mean, they are pretty high on that hill.” 

Azazel shakes his head, having half the mind to kick a pebble into the water. There’s no way the general saw anything in the dark, even with his eyeglasses. He’s too old. He was probably fast asleep by then, anyways, and Savaric and Grimald were probably too busy marching the halls or whatever they do for fun.   
It’s the end of the road. This whole thing has been a bust. 

“Mister Azazel!” A squawking, high-pitched voice shrills. 

He winces at the sound, reluctantly turning around to face Pepin as he flounders down the steep slope toward the beach. He runs so fast he nearly tumbles, frantically flapping his wings to gain air instead of bite dirt. Fluttering to the ground, he hops over to them, breathless. 

“Mister Alistair Laurembert requests your presence back in his infirmary room,” Pepin wheezes, a wing over his heart. “He’d like to see you right away.” 

Azazel scowls. This time, he actually kicks the pebble. 

“Tell him you couldn’t find me,” he mutters, stalking away from the beach. Everything feels gross around here. “Come on, Gunn. Let’s hit the bar.” 

Pepin’s feather’s fluff indignantly at Azazel’s rejection, but Azazel pays him no heed as he storms past. Gunnora eyes him worriedly before following along. Officer Nigel stays behind, picking up rock after rock and murmuring, “Hmm. Suspicious.” 

****

“Dude,” Gunnora says, barely sipping her beer, “Why are you avoiding Alistair?” 

Azazel doesn’t answer. He just swirls his untouched beer around in his glass. She looks away and sighs, dropping the subject. 

Investigating this mess isn’t working. Digging deeper only fills the hole with more dirt. He’s not sure if he’s made enough progress to even be on square one. And staring into his glass isn’t making him feel better. 

With a good, old fashioned 'what the hell' mindset, he puts back the whole glass and orders another. Gunnora gives him a look but doesn’t say a word. Instead, she downs her own glass in solidarity, slamming it on the table and whooping. He can’t help the grin that stretches on his face. Raising a hand, he gives her a high five as their drinks are replenished. 

They take a swig at the same time, clinking their cups together in a ‘cheers’ gesture. 

“Let’s get down to business,” Gunnora states, a determined fire in her eyes, “For real, this time.” 

Sitting at a booth, away from the commotion of the other patrons, they lean close together and begin to plot. On a napkin, Gunnora writes: ‘how to catch the ditto’. She underlines it three times. 

“If there is a new ditto assassin after you—which, yeah, there is, because I’m always right—then we gotta start getting one step ahead,” Gunnora insists, tapping her pen thoughtfully against the table. “Ditto assassins are tricky. They’re slippery and sneaky. Kinda like you.” 

“Hah.” 

“We have to try and figure out how to catch them,” she says, “We can’t keep letting them get away.” 

“I have a plan,” Azazel announces, taking a gulp of his drink. Putting it back down, he seethes, “I’ll kill them.” 

“Okay, dude, first of all, that’s murder,” she reminds, writing down ‘NO MURDER’ on the napkin. Azazel huffs, dropping his cheek in his hand. “Second, we can’t kill the ditto assassin, the clan will just send another. We can’t keep killing dittos until the end of time.” 

“Why not, that sounds great.” 

“No. Instead,” she begins, emphasizing ‘instead’, “We’re gonna capture and interrogate them. We need to find out who sent them after you, so we can find them and put a stop to this.” 

“All right, fine,” he relents, leaning back. “Where do we start?”

“My guess is that they’ve already started,” she informs, leaning closer to whisper. “If the new ditto came into town last night to murder the old one, that means they’re in Skystead somewhere. They could be in this bar right now, disguised, scouting you out.” 

Azazel looks around the bar at all of the faces, as if he’ll be able to pick them out as a ditto. Everyone looks like a normal, plain, boring person. There’s not a hint of bloodlust in their eyes. But he knows she’s right. If the ditto is here now, why wouldn't they be following him around? 

When he turns back to Gunnora, he grins and pokes her. “Are you the ditto assassin?” 

She snorts, poking him back. “Are you?” 

“I asked you first.” 

“I asked you second.” 

“If you’re not a ditto assassin,” he challenges, “Tell me: what’s my last name?” 

“You don’t even know your last name!” She protests, laughing. 

“Damn, got me.” 

“If your not a ditto assassin,” she says, “Tell me: what’s my favorite berry?” 

“Tamato berry.” 

She shoves him. “You know me so well.” 

They fool around with this fun new game they’ve made for a few minutes longer, pulling out obscure facts about themselves and testing each other’s best friend knowledge. He calls her out for trying to trick him on how many races she’s won at the annual sport competition in Ilracorn City, and Gunnora even remembers that he slept with the mayor’s daughter and the mayor’s son on separate occasions. He didn’t even remember that. For the first time all day, Azazel feels like his old self again. 

When Gunnora leans forward with an enthusiastic smile on her face and proclaims, “I’ve got a plan,” things really start turning up again. 

She describes the plan to him. Assuming a ditto assassin is in this bar right now—which, there is, because she’s always right—their eyes are glued to Azazel right now. If he drinks enough and pretends to get super drunk, they’ll think he’s inebriated enough to let his guard down. Gunnora will leave before Azazel, going to his house in the Underside. Azazel will leave sometime later, and the ditto will follow him. He’ll lead them back to his house where Gunnora’s waiting, and they’ll take on the assassin two to one. 

They perform their secret handshake that they made up the second Azazel evolved and grew arms. Then, Azazel promptly throws back another beer. 

To the bartender, he shouts, “I’ll have another!”

By the time the bar closes, Gunnora is long gone and Azazel is stumbling out the door. Muriel gives him a look of disapproval, shaking her head at him for getting roaring drunk two nights in a row. Well, Muriel should mind her own business, because Azazel is actually not drunk, and he will absolutely remember her judgy look. 

Only four or five patrons lingered in the bar as long as Azazel did. Four of those were the sleazebags he and Gunnora (mostly Gunnora) beat the crap out of yesterday. That left one unfamiliar face, sitting in the corner all night, barely drinking the liquor in their cup. Azazel’s pretty sure that’s the ditto: transformed to look like a grovyle. 

As he staggers down the street, he hears the faint sound of footsteps behind him. Whoever is following him, they’re keeping themselves at a careful distance. Close enough to keep him in their sight, but far enough to remain inconspicuous. If he hadn’t already been aware of their presence, Azazel most likely wouldn’t have noticed them. 

Every once in a while, when he takes a turn in the road, he catches a glimpse of the grovyle following him. She’s careful to keep her eyes off him as not to arouse his suspicion. But she takes extra precaution. When they reach a fork in the road, she takes the opposite path. A few minutes pass without anyone following him, and he begins to wonder if she wasn’t a ditto, after all. But then, an unfamiliar machop emerges from another street and begins to follow him at the same, cautious pace. 

She’s changing her appearance. She’s being very, very stealthy, not just to avoid his eyes, but to avoid the rest of the town. No witnesses, that way. 

He passes the fence that separates Underside and Topside. Quietly, the machop takes a different turn. A few minutes later, a helioptile begins to follow him. 

This is working perfectly. He’s leading the assassin by the nose to a trap set up just for her, and she doesn’t have the slightest clue. They’ll capture her in no time, get the information they want, and solve this whole mess. 

The helioptile turns into an alleyway. He’s sure, in a few moments, she’ll return as another pokémon. 

“Azazel?” 

Ice surges through his body, freezing him to the core. He whirls around, facing the one person that could make this great feeling suddenly turn sour. 

“Alistair!” He hisses, hurrying over to the wavering, weakened mismagius. He steadies him, careful not to brush his injured arm. His eyes dart between Alistair and the alley the assassin slunk down. “What are you doing here?! You need to go back to the hospital!” 

“I wanted to speak with you,” Alistair states, trembling and sweating from exertion. “About what I said to you the night before.” 

“Uh-huh, yeah,” he says, his eyes glued on the alleyway. A golduck emerges, and seeing him talking to someone, opts to lean against the wall and casually gaze at the stars. Ripping his eyes away from her, he looks to Alistair and suggests, “Why don’t you go back to the medic and I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” 

“I’ve come to apologize,” Alistair continues, heedless of Azazel’s plight, “For what I said about us… being… erm, friends.” 

The assassin turns her head slightly, not quite looking at him, but clearly studying him out of the corner of her eye. She’s sizing him up for the kill, and if he doesn’t get Alistair out of here, he’ll be wrapped up in it all over again. 

“I apologize if what I said was wrong or indecent in some way,” Alistair says. The assassin kicks herself off the wall, sauntering over toward them. Azazel spins his head around, facing his house. They’re only a few strides away, but if they don’t move now, she might just catch them. “See, I’ve never had a friend and I am unsure of how to proceed in establishing the friendship.” 

“Okay, that’s great,” Azazel says, wrapping an arm around Alistair to help him move faster. “Come on, let’s get inside.” 

“Should I have sent a letter?” Alistair asks, still caught up in his own little world. “Is it similar to a courtship, which requires parental approval and legal contracts?” 

He somehow manages to hurry them inside without killing Alistair or exacerbating his wounds. Gunnora’s chilling on his bed, inspecting her nails out of boredom. When she sees their company, her eyes go wide with terror. She jumps to her feet and angrily points to Alistair as if to demand, ‘why did you bring him?!’. Azazel frantically shakes his head, denying any responsibility. 

The door behind him rattles. 

“Is it taboo to make friends with those of another social class?” 

Underneath the crack of the door, purple ooze begins to slip inside. 

“Alistair, listen,” Azazel asserts, gingerly guiding him to his bed. “Lie down for a second, and just—pull the covers way over your head. So no one can see you.” 

“I will do no such thing,” Alistair refuses, stubborn. “Why have you been avoiding me?” 

He can see the assassin’s left eye glinting at him in the moonlight. 

“Okay, okay! If I talk to you, will you get in the bed?!” 

Impatiently, Alistair sits in bed, waiting for an answer. 

The ditto lunges inside. 

Gunnora leaps into action, slamming her knee into the ditto just before she transforms. Alistair yelps, scrambling back and nearly falling off the bed. Azazel catches him, throwing the dusty covers over him, and whirling around to face the battle. The ditto transforms into a tangrowth, shooting a dozen vines at Gunnora and himself. 

Winding her leg back, Gunnora strikes the assassin in the stomach, forcing her to drop them. Azazel hits the ground and sinks into it, arriving on the assassin’s other side. He slashes at her eyes, leaving her to howl in pain. While she clutches her face, Gunnora punches her in the gut. Out of nowhere, Azazel’s satchel whips through the air and smacks the assassin’s shoulder harmlessly. Alistair is out of bed, his mental powers sparked. 

“Alistair, get out of here!” Azazel shouts, just as the ditto grabs him and slams him into the bed beside Alistair. Alistair strikes her vine-like appendages, forcing them to recoil. “You have to go; you’re hurt, and I can’t let that happen again!” 

“I can handle this!” 

“No, you can’t!” 

“Oh, so you’re speaking for me now?!” 

The assassin lifts Gunnora off the floor and throws her into the wall. She lands on the bed beside them, picking herself up and demanding, “Uh, a little help?!” She’s promptly lifted up and thrown to the floor. 

“Listen, I’ve never had a friend I’ve had to protect before!” Azazel cries, catching the assassin’s vines that lash out at him. He tugs on them, and she hisses in pain before whipping him off. He’s thrown into the wall behind her, opposite of Alistair. Looking back up at him, he says, “I’ve never had to worry about protecting anyone but myself!” 

Alistair gestures to Gunnora. She screams, “You two are absolutely useless!” With a loud battle cry, she lunges at the assassin, knocking them to the ground and beating them senseless. 

“No, of course Gunnora doesn’t count; she’s the one protecting me!” He yells. “Look, I just hated to see what happened when you got tangled in my mess, okay?! And I can’t watch it happen again, so will you please just get out of here?!” 

The assassin shoots vines from her body, snatching all three of them into tight coils. Having learned from the last time, she ties Gunnora up all the way down to her legs. Vindictively, she squeezes them all, hard, reopening Alistair’s wounds and making black ichor drip into his bandages. 

Dread sinks Azazel to his core. This is a repeat of last night. He’s watching Alistair get beaten half to death and there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing Gunnora can do about it. 

Suddenly, Azazel’s entire bed is shot from the floor and smashed into the assassin’s head. She drops them, her vines slithering back to her as she wobbles and tries to regain her balance. Alistair’s eyes glow, his powers flaring, and he brings the bed down on her head one more time. She goes down instantly, out cold. After a few moments, she gradually transforms back into her original form. 

Sweating from exertion, Alistair fixes him with a stubborn glare. “I can handle this. I may not be as skilled in battle as the two of you, but I am an asset in my own right. I do not need to be protected. I need to be put to use.” 

Azazel and Gunnora sit on the floor, panting. Looking up at Alistair through the moonlight, Azazel feels like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

“Okay,” Azazel says, slowly. “You’re allowed in on this.” 

Alistair beams triumphantly. 

Then, he promptly passes out from pain. 

****

When Alistair begins to stir, Azazel says, “Oh, hey. He’s waking up.” 

All of Gunnora’s family surrounds his hospital bed the moment his eyes open, holding boxes of cookies and quilts and medicines and bags of tea. When Alistair fully awakens, he jolts with surprise at the company. 

“I,” he starts, speechless. Struggling to find words, he eventually lands on an awkward: “Hello.” 

Immediately, they all begin talking at once. Felicia throws one of her many quilts over him and shoves a box of her famous chocolate chip cookies into his arm, the kids question him relentlessly, and Fulk tries to introduce each of his ten children to Alistair over the commotion and noise. All the while, Azazel sits back and smiles, watching as Alistair experiences friendship for the first time.


	7. Festival of the Moon

Now that his week-long house arrest is over, Azazel has been granted permission by the general to come and go as he pleases, albeit with a companion. Not that Azazel ever listened to him in the first place. But now, he can walk through the marketplace without having to sneak around at all times. He just has to do it with Savaric or Grimald tailing him. Today, it’s Grimald. 

“Does he ever say anything?” Azazel asks Alistair as they walk to the town square. 

“Hardly,” Alistair replies. His arm is completely healed. His eye is still recovering. “I’m not certain I could describe the sound of his voice, even though he’s about to be in my wedding.” 

“Is he the best man?” 

“No, that’s Savaric.” 

“Did they fight over it?” 

Alistair’s eye twinkles playfully. “I’m sure they drew straws.” 

Azazel laughs, shaking his head. When they enter the town square, they’re met with blue and silver banners all over the place. There’s not a spot untouched by decoration: not the buildings, the arches, or even the floors. Alistair blinks at it all, perplexed, but Azazel casually remarks, “Oh, yeah. Forgot that was today.” 

“Forgot what was today?” 

“The Festival of the Moon,” Azazel replies, nodding to a little flag in a shop window. The flag is dark blue with a silver crescent moon insignia. “Every year, the whole town gets together at night just to have a lot of fun.” 

“Fun? What does this fun entail?” 

“Lighting lanterns and letting them go, singing, dancing,” Azazel lists. Alistair’s eye gets another star in it with each thing he lists. He can’t help his grin. “Does that sound fun to you?” 

“It sounds lovely,” Alistair answers, the faintest smile on his face. “I’d love to go.” 

“I’ll take you, then.” 

Alistair’s smile grows. He quickly hides it behind a hand and looks away. 

“So,” Alistair says, clearing his throat. “Shall we get to business?” 

They separate, casually, as any two people might do when they’re browsing the marketplace. Alistair wanders to a cart stocked with writing quills, and Azazel meanders around rather aimlessly, gazing at all sorts of trinkets. Grimald watches them both, focusing on Azazel. Azazel and Alistair share a glance. Alistair nods. 

Alistair falters, steadying himself on the merchant’s table. The shop owner, concerned, asks if he’s all right. He brushes off their concerns, insisting he’s fine, but then wavers again. He puts a hand to his forehead. His eyes roll back, and he falls to the ground. 

People around him gasp, uttering their concern for the general’s fainted fiancé. Grimald rushes over to him, casting the crowd away and tending to him. With everyone’s eyes on the scene, Azazel slips away, unnoticed by Grimald. Also unnoticed by Grimald is that Alistair is perfectly fine, and wide awake. They share a secret look before Azazel races off. 

Hurrying through town, he passes the fence into the Underside. In the daytime, it’s much less intimidating. Not much safer, though. He passes an alley with The Grimer Gang hanging around, and when they see him, they shrink away in fear. He grins, jogging the rest of the way to his house. 

When he opens the door, Gunnora is there waiting for him. She’s sitting on the bed. In front of her, the ditto they captured last night is strung to the wall, rope and nails criss-crossing every which way to ensure she doesn’t have a hole to slip through. His broken window is covered with a tarp, keeping anyone outside from peering in and seeing what they’re up to. 

“Ready?” Gunnora asks. He nods. 

Marching right up to the assassin, he strikes her across the face. “Who wants me dead?!” 

“Ow!” The assassin cries. “I was gonna tell you what I know, you didn't have to hit me.” 

“Oh. Whoops.” 

“Yeah, jackass,” she bites out. 

“Well?” Gunnora asks, arching a brow. “Spill it.” 

With a begrudging grunt, the assassin begins. “I don’t know who wants you dead. All I know is that they paid a lot of money to make sure it didn’t get traced back to them in any way. And I mean a lot. The clan leaders wouldn’t even tell us who was ordering the hit, that’s how much they paid.” 

“So, whoever has it out for me is rich,” Azazel deduces. He and Gunnora share a look. They nod. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I’ve robbed enough rich people to at least piss one of them off.” 

Gunnora studies the assassin skeptically. “Why are you so willing to tell us everything? Doesn’t your clan state that if you betray the mission, you’ll be killed? Just like you killed the first ditto for failing?” 

The ditto is inflamed with rage. With a voice like a cracking whip, she spits, “I did not kill my clan sister! That is not how the ditto clan works; we don't turn on each other. I came after you not only to finish her mission, but to get revenge on you for killing her.” 

A moment of silence falls over them. They didn’t kill her. She didn’t kill her. So who did? Does Azazel have someone watching his back from the shadows? Unlikely. But now, he has a whole other can of worms to deal with. And just when he thought they’d be getting some answers, too. 

The door opens, then quickly shuts. Alistair presses his back to the doorway, looking breathless. Almost like he just got away with something tantalizing and scandalous. 

“I just deceived Grimald and the entire town square,” he utters, his eyes wide and wild. He seems invigorated from the thrill, but maybe a little sickened by it as well. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” 

Gunnora grins at him. “You okay?” 

“It was quite the rush,” he admits, fanning himself. “But now, I worry I am growing a tad ill.” 

They sit him down, allowing him to have his crisis of conscience in the relative comfort of a cot. Meanwhile, they fill him in on everything the ditto assassin has taught them. He seems just as perplexed and troubled as they feel. They’re all asking themselves the same thing: where do we go from here?

The ditto assassin didn’t give them much. They’d been hoping she’d have all their answers, but she’s as much in the dark as they are. All she could do was point them in the vague direction of someone rich. That could be anyone. They don’t even have to be on this island at the moment! Azazel’s gotten on the bad side of so many rich folks during their summer stays at Skystead that the list of suspects is endless and their whereabouts are generally unknown. So how could he possibly narrow down who’s after him? It’s not like they have a list of all the thefts he’s committed. 

A light goes off in his head. They don’t have a list, no. But they have a bulletin board in a certain officer’s office. 

“I think I have a plan to find who’s after me,” Azazel states, and Gunnora and Alistair’s eyes light up. “But, we do have another problem.” 

Just like that, their faces fall. “What?” Gunnora asks.

Azazel turns to the ditto, who’s sulking in her binds. “What do we do with her?” 

Silence permeates the room. All eyes shift to the strung up assassin, studying her with apprehension and loathing. She glares back at them with the same expression. 

“Let’s kill her,” Azazel decides, already taking a step forward to volunteer. 

“Absolutely not!” Alistair denies, leaping up and putting himself between Azazel and the ditto. Appalled, he states, “I will not condone such brutish, lawless behavior!” 

“You’re no fun,” Azazel mutters, crossing his arms. 

“Let’s take him to the general,” Gunnora suggests, rummaging through Azazel’s closet. She pulls out a dusty jar. “We can put her in here.” 

The assassin grimaces. "Just kill me."

After shoving a very unhappy blob of goop into a small jar, they squeeze the lid on tight and throw it in Azazel’s satchel. They make their way through town as casually as they can while smuggling a live person. At the Underside, no one bats an eye at the angrily thrashing bag. But it turns some heads at the Topside. The three of them just walk a little quicker. 

While passing the station, Azazel makes a stop inside while the others wait on a bench for him. With a quick smile and wave, he hurries past the officers who narrow their eyes at him everytime he comes around. He holds the bag close to his side so they don’t see it move. As fast as he can without looking suspicious, he slips into Nigel’s office. 

Closing the door behind him, he’s relieved to see Nigel is not present. His eyes flick around the room for the bulletin board in question. He finds it in the corner, still covered by a sheet. He approaches it, sliding the sheet off. 

“Yikes,” he mutters, raising his eyebrows at the haphazard, conspiratorial collage of his crimes. Some of the notes look borderline crazy. Is Nigel really getting that hung up over being unable to catch him? 

As funny and slightly sad as that would be, that’s not the case. He realizes that a lot of the crazy notes are angry letters from the rich people he robbed. Most are snootily written, packed to the brim with passive aggressive insults toward the town law enforcement. But some, the odd ones out, are just plain aggressive. They’re full of demands and threats to kill whoever stole their belongings. These look like people who might pay to have him killed.

Azazel snags the most violent of the notes, stuffing them in his bag. In doing so, he unintentionally knocks the jar onto the floor. He curses to himself the moment it makes contact, popping the lid and seal off. 

Like lightning, the ditto zips out of the jar, transforming into a primeape and slugging him in the face. 

He runs into the desk but stays on his feet. She races to the door, attempting to escape, but he lunges after her. Tackling her to the ground, they roll to the far side and knock over Nigel’s bulletin board. It falls on them harmlessly, but hangs pictures and yarn in their face. Azazel attempts to shove it away, but she turns into a raichu and electrocutes him. 

She throws him off and races back to the door. Before she can flee, he sinks into the floor and reappears in front of her, swinging a punch at her face. She ducks, transforming into a joltik and scurrying between his legs. Hastily, he scoops up the jar and slams it down over her, trapping her. 

“Hah!” He cries, triumphant. 

She morphs into a piloswine and knocks the jar aside. Charging straight into him, she knocks him back into the desk. Instead of trying to flee, she pursues attacking him relentlessly, probably figuring defeating him will be easier than escaping him. She stomps on him mercilessly, causing the room to vibrate.

Outside, in the cubicles, the other officers murmur to each other in question. What’s going on? What’s that sound? The sound of chairs scraping backwards and people rising to their feet makes him freeze. He can’t let them see him in here. The moment they catch him with this assassin sent by an angry rich person he dissed, they’ll be able to prove Azazel a thief. 

The ditto seems to have the same concerns. Well, not word for word, but she certainly doesn’t want to get caught. Swirling into a purple twister of goo, she zooms to the wall and shapes herself into a mop. Azazel snatches the mop just as a group of officers poke their heads in the window.  
Whistling and fake mopping the floor, he waves at them. They narrow their eyes, slowly returning to their seats. 

Immediately, the ditto shifts from the mop to a lombre and slugs him in the face. He staggers back, catching himself on the wall just as she leaps into the air to strike down on him. Ducking and rolling, he avoids her hit and bounces to his feet on the other side of her. She stumbles into the wall just as he stands and charges her. Cornered at the wall, she transforms back into her original self to slip right over his head. 

When she lands, she turns into a growlithe. Pouncing at him and baring her teeth, she digs into his shoulder. His back hits the ground. She buries her fangs into him. Hissing in pain, he throws her into the desk and kicks her in the stomach. Before she can regain the wind he knocked out of her lungs, he grabs her up by the fur between her ears and slams her head against the corner of the table. 

She drops to the floor, unconscious. Her orange, furry, four-legged form melts back to her traditional ditto appearance. Allowing himself only a brief second to breathe, he picks up the jar and scoops her back in. He shuts it tighter this time. 

Shoving the jar back into the bag, he hurries out of the station with a pile of death threats and an unconscious assassin. Alistair and Gunnora are still on the bench where he left them, and when they see the bag strangely motionless, they give him a questioning look. 

“A little scuffle,” he explains simply. 

Walking through the town square as the sun begins to set, more and more people are preparing for the Festival of the Moon. Flags, banners, streamers, lanterns, and flowers decorate every inch of the town. Candles light every window with a heavenly glow that mimics the moon. Children chase each other with sparklers, giggling and laughing with excitement. Alistair gazes with awe as the events slowly unfold, like a blooming flower. 

“Are you excited for your first Festival of the Moon?” Azazel wonders. Alistair turns to him, the lights of the town reflecting in his eye. 

“Yes,” Alistair utters, as if his surroundings have taken his breath away. “I see… chess boards?” 

“Yeah, people bring out all sorts of games,” he replies, glancing around at some he sees: ring toss, spin the wheel, balloon pop, and so much more. “If you win, you get prizes. Just fun little trinkets, nothing special.” 

Alistair puts a hand to his lips in thought. With a determined look in his eye, he states, “I am rather proficient at chess. I will win you something.” 

“And I’m pretty good at stealing,” Azazel murmurs with a grin, leaning close. “I’ll steal you something.” 

Alistair gasps, horrified at the notion. Azazel can’t help but laugh. 

“Mister Azazel!” Two voices shout in harmony. Azazel groans, turning to see none other than Savaric and Grimald marching through the crowd. When they reach him, they narrow their eyes crossly at him. 

He offers a half-hearted wave. “Hey, guys.” 

“The general is very displeased that you took advantage of his fiancé losing consciousness to flee. He would like to have words with you.” 

Of course he would. Well, everyone knows how well this will end. 

“Additionally,” Savaric begins, “The general commends Cadet Gunnora for attempting to keep Azazel in line. He thanks you for your hard work.” 

A jolt of excitement courses through Gunnora, clear as day. Bright-eyed and full of fire, she salutes and practically shouts, “Yessir, it’s been an honor, sir!” 

Azazel gives her a dirty look for lying just to suck up to the general. And he gives her an especially dirty look for wanting to suck up to that pervert in the first place. She steadily ignores him so she can bask in her hero’s praise for a moment longer. 

That’s when he remembers: he never told her the truth about Alistair’s engagement to General Thurston. In her mind, he’s still a hero worth idolizing. He considers pulling her aside and telling her now, but… one more glance at her starstruck look convinces him to wait. Not tonight. He’s not going to let that disgusting creep ruin her Festival of the Moon. 

“We’ll catch you later tonight, Gunn, at the festival,” he says, waving her goodbye. She returns it with an enthusiastic wave of her own, practically hopping down the street back to the inn. To Savaric and Grimald, he says, “All right, let’s go have a chat with the general.” 

Walking up the stairs of the estate is less pleasant than usual. That’s probably because General Thurston is standing in the doorway, clear displeasure in his features. Azazel gives him a careless smile and wave, digging into his satchel. 

General Thurston opens his mouth to verbally lay waste to him, only to promptly close it when Azazel pulls out the jar. The ditto inside stirs, blinking her eyes blearily as she returns to awareness. Staring, stunned, the general asks, “What… is that?” 

“A ditto,” Azazel responds, shaking the jar a bit. The assassin squirms in the glass and shoots him a furious glare. “She’s part of a ditto assassin clan.”

“She was sent on behalf of a third party,” Alistair elaborates, taking the jar and handing it over to the general. The general takes it in his claws, inspecting her like she’s a stain. “The third party is the one who wishes Azazel dead. If we can trace this ditto back to her clan, perhaps we can discover who has paid them to eliminate Azazel.” 

General Thurston examines the ditto. She studies him with a flicker of fear. “Hmm. A ditto clan is a difficult organization to find. And a pricey one. If you’ve angered someone with the ability to both track them and pay them—” He looks to Azazel, grim— “It seems you’ve made a very, very powerful enemy.” 

Alistair’s expression flickers with concern, for his sake. He doesn’t want him to spend the whole festival tonight plagued with worry, so he brushes it off. “Eh, happens all the time. I have that effect on people.” 

“You ought to tread carefully,” the general warns, grave. “You have no idea what lies in store.” 

He studies the ditto for a moment longer, dismally clicking his tongue. Lowering the jar, he faces Alistair. 

“My pet, I’m afraid this situation is getting far too dangerous for you. I must insist you no longer exit the estate unsupervised nor at nighttime,” he says. “If there truly is a ditto clan involved, I fear this entire town is unsafe for you to travel.” 

“At night as well?” Alistair utters, a hand fluttering up to his chest. “But… tonight is the Festival of the Moon. Surely, you can make an exception for one night—” 

“I cannot. And I will not,” the general declares, shaking his head. “I have already almost lost you; I will not do so again. This is for your own good.” 

“You can accompany me,” Alistair argues, a tinge of desperation in his eyes. “Please, General, if only for an hour—” 

“I will not hear anymore of this,” General Thurston proclaims, stern. Azazel can almost see Alistair’s heart break. “Now, go. To bed with you.” 

Alistair’s entire frame flares with the fiery desire to fight back. His eye blazes stronger than Azazel’s ever seen, as if he’s exerting physical strength to force his bubbling emotions down. For a moment, Azazel thinks he’ll lash out and explode at General Thurston, but after clenching his fists and tearing his gaze away from him, he storms inside. 

However, he doesn’t leave without spitting one last scathing retort: “You cannot lock me up forever, I am not a child anymore. I know the latter of that statement is particularly disappointing to you.” 

Something dangerous flickers in the general, but it vanishes in an instant, as if covered by a mask. The general watches him go, his eyes full of sadness. Azazel sees right through his cheap tricks; they’re the same damn tricks he uses to steal: misdirection and deception. He’s playing the role of the scorned lover to villainize Alistair and hide who the real monster is. 

But when he turns to Azazel, that feigned tenderness is immediately transformed into hardness. 

“You ought to rest, as well,” he suggests firmly. With Savaric and Grimald at his back, urging him forward, he gets the hint that it’s not really a suggestion. He’s shoved inside, prompted toward the stairs. “Goodnight. Sleep well.” 

As he’s prodded up the stairs, he steals one last glance back at the general as he stands outside. The large oak doors slowly close as the general examines the ditto, disdainfully muttering, “Now, what to do with you…” 

****

Azazel can’t sleep. He’s been tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling all night. He’s been awake so long that the festival is long since done, and the commotion down in the town has silenced to nothing more than a summer’s breeze. It’s all over. The games and the lanterns and the singing and the dancing. He watched what dim fireworks he could see from his window. He wonders if Alistair could see them, too.

He sits up, turning to the balcony. Outside, he can see the moon. It’s a full moon, and it cascades beautifully down on the gardens. He can see the fountain where he first heard Alistair sing. What does it look like, up close in the moonlight?

Standing, he tugs the blankets away from himself to walk to the glass door. He presses a hand against it, pushing himself out onto the balcony. The air is cool, but not cold. The faint scents from the garden and the candies from the festival that still linger in the air drift up to him. He thinks, briefly, of how the smells would’ve been in the town square. He thinks of how he would’ve stolen a sweet for Alistair and how Alistair would’ve won him a game of chess. 

Turning his head, he looks at the balcony beside his. Alistair and the general are sleeping in that room. Is Alistair really sleeping, though? Or did the sounds of the festival keep him up all night? 

He rises into the air, floating. Pushing himself away from the balcony railing, he hovers over to Alistair’s glass door. Cautiously, he peers inside. He sees the luxurious king size bed that General Thurston and Alistair rest in. Raising a hand, he quietly taps the door. 

Immediately, Alistair stirs. He pokes his head up from his pillow, and seeing Azazel, hastily throws the covers aside and hurries to the door. Before slipping outside, he sneaks a glance over his shoulder at the general. The general snores away. 

Alistair opens the door, closing it silently behind him. Drifting to Azazel, he wonders, “What are you doing? Should the general catch you, he’ll be furious.” 

“That’s only if he catches me, doll,” Azazel responds cheekily. Offering Alistair a hand, he says, “Come on. Let’s go to the gardens.” 

Alistair blinks at him peculiarly. Then, wordlessly, he takes his hand. 

Azazel leads him to the fountain, their path illuminated by moonlight. Every step away from the estate building is like a step toward their own magical world. When they reach the fountain, Azazel is swept away by the beauty all around him. The flowers seem more radiant than in the sun, the hedges perfectly divine. The fountain is running but somehow appears so still, with the stars reflecting in its surface like a mirror. The marble soaks up the moon’s rays and looks like a lunar sculpture of its own. 

When Azazel turns to face Alistair, he sees all of this and more reflected in his one eye. 

Offering Alistair a goofy, informal bow, he says, “Dance with me.” 

Alistair’s hand flutters up to his mouth, his eye sparkling and betraying the smile he hides. Like a hesitant yet blissfully eager lover who’s never been wooed, he accepts Azazel’s hand. Fluidly, Azazel draws him close. They begin to dance. 

It’s not the dance they would’ve had at the festival. Yet, he finds he wouldn’t change a thing.


	8. A Bitter Memory

Libraries have never been his scene, but he’s come to appreciate the one in General Thurston’s estate. Unfortunately, that makes the transition back to the public library especially difficult. You’d think in a library so big, the librarians would have something better to do than just shush him all the time. But, here they are. 

“Shush!” A hoothoot hisses, looking ready to throw a book at them. Angrily, she flutters away, off to shush some other poor victims. 

Turning to Gunnora and Alistair, Azazel says, “...I wasn’t even talking.” 

They’ve been in the library for an hour or so, scratching their heads over the latest developments in their investigation. The ditto turned out to be useless, and even if they wanted to question her again, the general already sent her away. All they have going for them are the threatening letters Azazel nabbed from the station. There’s ten or so of them, but none of them stand out from the others. They’re all equally violent and bloodthirsty. With these alone, there’s no determining which could be behind all this. 

Even more aggravating than their lack of leads is their lack of privacy. Although Savaric and Grimald keep their distance, they don’t tear their eyes away from them for a second. They’re not just following Azazel this time, they’re following Alistair, too. General’s orders. So now, they’re hounded by double the security. At least they stay far enough away for the three to have a semi-private conversation. 

Heavily, Gunnora sighs, dropping a death threat to the table and rubbing her eyes. “I feel like we aren’t getting anywhere with this. These letters might be suspicious, but how do we know any of these people are behind this? It’s not like they’re the only people who might want Azazel dead, he has that kind of effect on people. No offense, dude.” 

“None taken.” 

“I have also grown troubled by the avenue of thought we’ve been travelling,” Alistair agrees. Or at least, Azazel thinks he agrees. He has a hard time translating his rich and proper speech. “Should it be true what Azazel boasts—that he has never been caught in the act of theft—then I fail to see how a victim of one of his crimes could be the one after him.” 

Azazel and Gunnora glance at each other, equally lost. They look back at Alistair, and Azazel says, “Explain.” 

“Well,” he begins, picking up a death threat and examining it. “If you have never been caught, how would these people know who to target? Not one of these letters mentions you by name or makes any notion that they are aware of who committed the theft against them. So how could any of them be the perpetrator of your attempted murders?”

When Alistair finally gets to the point through all of his frivolous flowery language, he actually starts making sense. It may be common knowledge in the town that he’s a thief, but the rich tourists wouldn’t have that same intimate knowledge. And even if they heard rumors and began to suspect him, would they really be willing to pour exorbitant amounts of money and time into killing him based on a hunch? He knows some rich people practically burn their money just because they can, but he has a feeling they’d rather spend it on wild parties or second mansion instead of on a baseless accusation. 

So, if it wasn’t someone he robbed from, then there’s someone after him for another reason. If it’s unrelated to theft, he honestly can’t think of any other offense he committed against anyone. Why else would anyone would target him? 

“Could it be that this has to do with an issue of familial honor?” Alistair muses, deep in thought. Azazel tenses. “Perhaps someone in your family tarnished the reputation of an affluent individual. It could explain why someone would pursue you, perhaps for revenge—” 

“No.” Azazel states it, firm. 

“I do not find the idea impossible,” Alistair persists. “Such as the general would do anything to ensure a pristine reputation, so would most of the rich and powerful—” 

“I said no,” he snaps, abruptly standing. “No one in my family did anything wrong. End of story.” 

Alistair looks offended and stunned. “I only suggested it to help—”

“Well, it didn’t,” he bites out, shoving away from the table and stalking away. “Drop it already.” 

He storms away just to get out of that atmosphere. As soon as Alistair brought up his family, it was as if a rope had been tied around his neck. For lack of a better place to go, Azazel turns down a row of shelves and disappears from their view. 

There’s a stool in the aisle. Exhausted, he flops onto it. Over the shelf, he hears the faint whispers of Gunnora and Alistair. 

She says, “It’s okay, you didn’t know…” He loses part of what she says after a hoothoot shushes her. He picks up the tail end of it. “He’s sensitive about his parents.” 

He scoffs, tuning their conversation out and glaring at the bookshelf in front of him. Sensitive, right. He’s not sensitive about it. Sensitive is the word for someone who cries over it, and Azazel hasn’t cried in years. It’s more like—like a sore. Like a raw, open wound that doesn’t quite know how to heal. 

A book on the shelf catches his gaze. It’s an older book, chipped at the edges, probably a decade or so aged. The title catches his eye, but he doesn't stand to pick it off the shelf. It reads, 

History of Beggar’s Hole.

He does his best not to think about that place. But somehow, it always comes back and finds him. 

****

Azazel is eight years old today. He’s lucky, because most kids around here don’t know their birthdays, but his mom and dad made sure to carve the day into the wall of their home so they’d never forget. They even count everyday that goes by so they know for sure when he’s another year older. 

“Gettin’ tall, buddy,” his dad says with a smile. Azazel floats proudly by the door, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stretch himself as high as he can. His dad takes a sharp rock and carves his height into the doorframe. “Someday, you’ll be as tall as me.” 

The idea makes Azazel’s eyes shoot open, wide. Someday, he’ll evolve into the same pokémon as his dad: a banette. But the thought of being as tall as Dad sounds impossible. Almost magical.

“Mom! Mom!” He calls, fluttering over to her in the kitchen. She smiles down at him, a chime ringing inside her as she moves. Dad always said that’s why he fell in love with her: because she moved with a song inside her. Azazel pointed out that every chimecho can do that, but his dad told him it wasn’t the same. “Will I really be as tall as Dad someday?” 

She smiles, handing him a broken plate with one berry on it. “As long as you eat all your food.”

He goes to his bedroom to eat. Which, is really still the kitchen. Living in a one room house means all of your rooms are squished into one. It’s awesome! 

Sitting on his bed, he asks, “Are you guys gonna eat dinner with me tonight?” 

There are no other berries on the table. His mother sits by him and says, “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” 

He shrugs, munching on his berry. His father sits on his other side, wrapping them both in his arms. From above, a drop of water splashes his head. He looks up, giggling. 

“The roof is leaking again!” He cries, a smile on his face. “Isn’t that funny?”

Over his head, his mom and dad exchange a glance that he can’t see. They do that a lot.

His mom sniffs, leaning against him. “Happy Birthday, my baby boy.” 

\---

He has chores. Everyone has something to do here; they’re never not busy. Either food is low and they have to find some, there’s a drought, or there’s sickness going around. Everyday, Azazel has the same job, no matter rain or shine: he goes to the market to trade for some food. 

The market is the same everyday. The same people sit on their dirty blankets and offer old things for other old things. Azazel has a little sack of sharp rocks that can be used as knives. His dad makes them so he can ask for bread and berries in return. 

Racing into the market with a giddy grin on his face, he chirps, “Hi, guys!”

The vendors slowly look up from their goods. They stare at him with tired eyes. They look back down. 

Finding the vendor with the nicest looking berries, he flits over to them and opens his sack of knives. There’s three in total. “You can have anyone you want for three berries!”

The raticate merchant snarls, yanking back their basket of smushed berries possessively. “Ya think I’m givin’ ya a three fer one ‘ere?! Same amount or no deal!”

“But,” Azazel starts, frowning, “Berries are a lot easier to get than knives. These take a long time to make.”

Baring their yellowed, crooked teeth at him, they clutch their basket and lean over it to spit, “Same amount. Or no deal.”

Azazel fidgets anxiously. His dad always says not to trade away needlessly, and just three little berries for three whole knives seems like a lopsided trade. He glances around at the other merchants to see if they’ve got anything halfway decent. Their food is all rotten and moldy. He grimaces.

“All right,” he relents, glum. He nudges a knife toward the raticate. “Just one berry.”

They snatch the knife like he might steal it away, hiding it away in their cloak. Offering him a shriveled berry with an even more shriveled paw, they rasp, “Pleasure doin’ business wit ya.”

He takes the berry and wraps it up in his sack, heading down the dirt road back home. He only makes it a few feet before an idea strikes him. Stopping, he hesitantly glances over his shoulder. The raticate is turned around and examining their new knife, not facing their basket of berries. Azazel’s eyes dart back and forth. No one else is looking. Their eyes are all downcast on their own, miserable goods. 

Five minutes later, he takes off running from the market. His bag is full, with two knives and three berries. Far, far behind him, he hears the raticate screech with fury. 'Serves them right', he thinks, 'for trying to cheat us like that.' 

When he bursts in his house, he drops the bag to the floor and cries, “Look how many berries I got!”

His parents stop what they’re doing immediately to hurry and see. Upon seeing him with three decent quality berries and only one knife gone, his dad asks, “How did you get these?”

“I stole them!” He proclaims, proudly. “They didn’t even see me!”

His parents stare at him, speechless. They turn to each other and share a look. Then, his mom loops her lower half around him and says, “Baby.” When she talks with that tone, Azazel knows he’s in trouble. He sulks while she cuddles him. His dad chuckles and pats his head. 

“You know stealing is bad,” she says, resting her head on his. He nods. “So why did you do that?”

“Because the merchant was being mean, and they were trying to take all the knives for three little berries,” he answers, pouting. “And I wanted you guys to eat dinner with me today, so I took the other two berries.”

They pause, as if unsure what to say. After a moment, Mom looks to his dad like she’s asking for help. Dad sits beside them, taking one of the berries in his hand.  
“We won’t make you give these back—this time,” he says, handing Azazel the berry. Grabbing another and handing it to Mom, he adds, “But we don’t want you doing this anymore. Okay?”

“But why?” He wonders. “Everyone else does it.”

“We don’t want you to be like everyone else here, buddy.” Dad takes a berry for himself. “We want you to be better. We want a better life for you than this.”

He tilts his head to the side, confused. “What could be better than this?”

\---

One of the older kids taught him how to make a flower crown last week. He’s still not very good at it, but when he gives it to Mom, she calls it the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen: drooping stems and all. 

“I’ll wear it,” she says, placing the crown on her head, “Until the last flower dies. 

\---

Amabel, a buizel, is the older kid who taught him how to make the flower crown. She’s the smartest kid around here, probably because she’s the oldest. She’s already kissed a girl before; gross! That’s how old she is. She teaches everyone all the stuff she knows, like how to tell if a berry is ripe, how to warm up when you have no blankets at home, and how to kill someone in self-defense. 

She watches them play games, and sometimes, she even joins in. Today, she’s sitting under the shade of a dead tree and talking to two other girls in hushed whispers. When Azazel notices the swift glances they share, he calls, “Hey! Don’t leave us out of the secret, that’s not fair!” 

Amabel crosses her arms and sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re too young to be a part of this secret, Azzie.” 

“Am not!” He retorts. “I just turned eight last week, so tell us!” 

The rest of the group yells in unison, clamouring to be let in on all the juicy details. They all crowd around Azazel and start chanting for answers, giggling and grinning through their mini protest. Overwhelmed and agitated, Amabel barks, “Fine, fine, you brats! I’ll tell you, but only if you huddle up and keep quiet.” 

Obediently, they all gather around. There’s lights in everyone’s eyes: whenever the big kids have something to say, it’s always something really exciting. That’s how Azazel learned where babies come from! 

Taking a deep breath, Amabel fixes them with a serious, grave look. They all hold their breath and lean forward as she states, “Last night, some scary men came here.” 

Just the thought of visitors is shocking enough, much less scary ones. No one comes around these parts. Almost as if they’re afraid to. 

She continues, “While all the kids were asleep, a whole bunch of scary men showed up to talk to the adults. They called this place a beggar’s hole.”  
A beggar’s hole? Don’t they know this place is just called Home? 

“They said bad things will happen if we all stay here.” Amabel’s voice has dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. Some kids are starting to look scared. But not Azazel, no way. He’s eight. “They said they’ll make us leave. Whatever it takes.” 

\---

Azazel’s run all the way home since Amabel told him the secret. He’s definitely not scared, and he’s definitely not crying, and he’s definitely not worried about losing Home or his parents. 

When he bursts through the door, his parents jump in fright. They’ve never done that before.

“Are we gonna get taken away by the scary men?” He asks. His eyes are wet and stinging. 

His dad scoops him up right away, and his mom curls around them and coos, “Baby, don’t cry. Shh, it’s okay. Nothing bad is gonna happen.” 

“Are the scary men gonna come back?” He sniffles. All he can imagine is waking up one day and finding his parent’s bed empty, the scary men having whisked them away forever in some evil dungeon. “Why do they want us to leave?” 

“Nobody’s coming back,” Dad assures, brushing his tears away. “And nobody’s taking us away.” 

“We’re always gonna be here for you,” Mom says with a smile. She’s still wearing his flower crown. 

“We’ll never leave you behind,” Dad adds. 

Azazel snivels. Cuddling closer, he says, “Promise?” 

A beat. 

Softly, his mother responds, “We promise.” 

\---

Now that Azazel knows the scary men won’t ever come back and hurt them, he’s not afraid of them anymore. They might be scary, but they’ll never be able to take Home away from everyone, no matter how hard they might try! And now that they’re not so spooky, they’re easier to talk about with his friends: so easy, in fact, that they made up a new game about it. 

“You’re It!” Amabel laughs, slapping his head and racing away. “You’re the Scary Man!” 

“Aw, no fair!” Azazel protests, racing after her. 

He and the other kids race through the streets, giggling and shrieking with delight. Some adults curse at them as they dart through the busy foot traffic, but he pays them no mind. Amabel is the fastest kid around here, but he’ll catch her if it’s the last thing he does. 

He races down the street, races through the marketplace, races past his house. Everywhere he goes, kids run from him, determined not to be caught. They dart around trees and hide behind huts. Azazel rushes past them to get Amabel, and he rushes past his parents. 

“The Scary Man is coming!” The others cry, giggling with glee. 

When he finally manages to tag Amabel, he doesn’t feel very good about it. All he could think about were the frowns on his parent’s faces as the children all laughed. 

\---

“Mom? Dad?”

They tuck him in, smiling at him to gesture for him to continue. 

“If the scary men ever come,” he says, “I’ll protect you guys.” 

He’s never seen his parents cry before. 

\---

He wakes up that night and finds his parents gone. 

If he had a heart, it would be racing. If he had blood, it would be pumping. But maybe it’s more fitting that he doesn’t have these things, and that he can’t have a pounding heart or thrumming veins, because then it’s like he’s flatlining and losing all sense of calm. The scary men took them. They’re real, they’re not a spooky story, and they took his parents. 

Lunging out of bed, he dashes to the door to chase after them. The moment he bursts out the door, however, he immediately ducks behind it and peers around. 

All the adults in town are standing in the street. They clutch each other and sniffle, afraid. His parents are there; their faces are struck with harsh light from a hundred torches. The torches wind throughout a group of men, like a snake of fire. The men are all impossibly tall, and impossibly big, and impossibly dark. Shadows, lanky and long and sharp, are cast in every which way. Their faces and bodies are masked by the dark, but Azazel can see their eyes. They glow with hellfire. 

The scary men. 

One of the scary men steps forward. Immediately, in a ripple effect, the adults falter back. 

This man has to be the leader. He’s taller, bigger, scarier. He looks down on the adults like they’re kids. Or like they’re dirt. They look up at him like he’s a wrathful god with a gavel in hand. 

“We are done waiting,” the scariest man states. His voice sends tremors through the crowd. His voice is demonic and unreal. It’s not even a voice, it’s the sound of misery. “It is time for you all to leave.” 

Waves of terror and devastation break through the people. Heartbroken murmurs and the sound of weeping rise up from the air. The scary men do not flinch. The darkness around their faces is unchanging. The leader is worse. He turns his nose up at the sound of suffering. 

Azazel squeezes even closer to the door, as if he can become it. He can’t tear his eyes from the scary men. It’s as if he looks away for one second, if he even blinks, one of them with lunge out of the darkness at him. His eyes begin to dry as he stares, and stares, and stares and waits, tense like prey, for them to do something.  
The adults’ eyes shift to each other in silent fear, uncertain of what to do. These monsters have marched into their Home, carrying torches like the devil’s eyes, and are trying to strip his people of everything they have. There are two adults that step forward—and one of them is wearing a flower crown. 

“We’re not leaving,” his mother declares, her voice quivering as she looks the scariest man dead in the eyes. Azazel can’t see his face to tell an expression, but he imagines it’s stony and cold and heedless of their plight. “We’re a community. We’ve made our homes here, raised our children here. You can’t expect us to just pack up and leave!” 

Voices from the crowd rise up in passionate agreement, loud and bold. The scary men don’t budge. Their torches don’t even flicker. 

His dad adds, “We may be rough around the edges. We may not be as pretty as you’d like. But we fought hard to find a place where people like us can fit in. We won’t let anyone take that away from us, not even you.” 

For the first time, Azazel can see something stretching across the leader’s face. A scowl. A disgusting, hideous, awful scowl. He raises his arm like he’s about to strike his parents down. 

Azazel’s eyes go wide. He can’t hide anymore; he promised he’d protect Mom and Dad! He races out from behind the door. 

He’s standing in front of them before he knows it. His head is turned up to glare at the scariest man. The arm that would’ve hit his parents is stuck in mid-air.  
“Don’t hurt them!” He shouts, ignoring his parents’ frantic cries for him to go. They pull him back, hugging him tightly between them. “Leave us alone!” 

His mother shushes him, his father holds him tight. The scariest man leers down at him as if he were a pile of garbage. 

“Tell me,” the man begins, lowering his arm. His voice is like bones grinding against each other. “Do you enjoy sleeping in dirty huts? Do you enjoy drinking filthy water?” 

Azazel, suddenly shy, finds himself unable to form words. But that doesn’t stop him from staring the man down.

“Of course,” the man says. His voice is like thunder. “You’re just a child. You don’t understand the world outside this place. You don’t understand that you’re a stain on this world.” 

He finds words again. “The only stain here is you!” 

The man’s eyes flare in an instant, like a fire suddenly struck a dying forest. All around him, the crowd of adults falter back. Azazel’s parents drag him backwards with them, as if they’re repelled by his rage. 

Only two words come out of the scariest man’s mouth. 

“Kill them.” 

The scary men charge, and the first person hit is the raticate merchant he stole from days ago. Their jugular erupts with spurts of red, they gag and gargle, they fall to the dirt. A pool of blood drowns them as they die. 

Like a strike of lightning, everyone flees. Left, right, straight ahead, people scramble in all directions and scream and cry as they’re chased by scary men. Sounds of a fight and sounds of death fill the air, but Azazel can’t see them. Azazel’s eyes are stuck on the merchant, on their glossy eyes, on their gaping mouth. His dad snatches him up and begins to run. 

“Don’t look!” Mom cries, running right beside them as they flee through body littered streets. A scary man runs behind them, pursuing them, hunting them. His mother is sobbing. “Don’t look, baby, don’t look!” 

But he is looking. He can’t stop. There, by the old oak tree, their neighbor sits like he always does. But he’s not relaxing in the shade, he’s slumped against the trunk, the trunk is spattered in red. His wife made it farther, almost out of reach of the tree’s branches. She’s being hacked to death. She’s screaming for her mother, who’s been dead for five years. 

An unfortunate person races across the street at just the wrong time. They end up between Azazel’s family and the scary man. Azazel and his parents escape him, the scary man too busy slashing the newcomer to death. But they’re tailed by another: the scariest man. The leader. The one with fire in his eyes. And he’s gaining like an avalanche tumbling toward them. 

Dad pushes him into his mother’s arms. “Both of you, run!” 

Mom screams for him not to, but Dad shoves her away. She bawls and flees just as he confronts the scariest man. In a split second, he’s cut down at the leader’s feet. Azazel hears his mom wail, but only as a background noise; he’s screaming enough on his own. 

His father falls to the ground in two pieces. His head rolls, his eyes vacant and lifeless. 

The world around him is a blur. It’s spinning, it’s tipping, it’s wobbling uncontrollably. Blood and entrails and brains pour out of his friends and spill onto the dirt. Red and red and red fly through the air and spatter against walls and trees and people. 

Azazel can’t remember how they got to the edge of the settlement. But his mind wakes up as soon as they do, because that’s when his mother falls.  
He hits the ground along with her, tumbling out of her arms. When he shoots back up, he sees she’s been struck at her lower half, her entire lower extension sliced off. Blood leaks out of her like a waterfall. He cries out for her, racing to her, trying to help her back up. She grits her teeth and sweats and weeps. 

“Azazel,” she gasps out, in anguish, “You have to go.” 

He refuses, he cries, he screams. He tells her to get up, he begs her to get up. Behind her, the scariest man stalks ever closer. 

“Run,” she utters, her energy draining with every drop of blood. 

A single step by the leader makes the whole world silent. Azazel can hear his own thoughts running rampant and wild and afraid. The scariest man stands before him, glowering down at him, his arms soaked in blood and ichor. His dad’s ichor. 

“Please,” his mother whispers. She’s not talking to him. She’s turned herself around, bearing through the pain, just to face the man. “Please. He doesn’t deserve this, he’s just a boy.” 

Azazel sees no remorse in his shadow-stricken face. 

“I have no mercy for stains like you,” the man proclaims, cold. He raises an arm to strike Azazel down. “All must die.” 

Slashing his arm down, he prepares to cut him down the way he did to his father. Azazel flinches back, squeezing his eyes shut. He never feels a slicing, cutting, or hacking pain. Instead, he feels someone holding him tight. He opens his eyes. He sees his mother hugging him, blood rushing out of her back, enduring the blows to spare his life. 

Furiously, the scariest man grabs her. With a vicious tug, he yanks her away from Azazel. She cries, digging a hand in the dirt to keep her in place. With her other hand, she grips him tight. Her blood spills on the ground. She grips him tight. The man pulls harder. 

He’s trying to rip them apart. Azazel would hold her with all his strength if he could. But all he can do is beg for her not to let go as he watches the scariest man wrench her away. 

She screams for him, her voice hoarse and weak. Before Azazel can even run to her, the scariest man raises his foot and smashes it down on her head.  
“Run,” she exhales, hardly able to speak. Her words come out in a faint, croaking sound. 

Azazel shakes his head vehemently. But he’s stuck on the spot. He can’t do anything to help her. All he can do is watch. 

It doesn’t take long. One, two, three more stomps on her head and she’s gone. Her head is caved in like a bowl and bloody and cracked and leaking. The flower crown he made her is on the ground. Not a single flower is dead. 

Azazel doesn’t know how he got the power to move again. He doesn’t know why he was petrified then and mobile now, or why he suddenly decides to flee the man, or how he somehow manages to elude him. But he does, he escapes him and hides for the rest of the night, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to listen to everyone he loves die. 

When day breaks and the nightmare is over, it doesn’t feel like it was real. The only thing that tells him it’s true is the foul stench of death in the air.  
He cries to himself for hours. He begs for Mom, for Dad, for anyone. Eventually, someone does find him. 

“Hey,” Amabel says. Her fur is stained red. “Me and some other kids are still alive. We’re gonna head to Ilracorn City and go to the orphanage for help there. Wanna come?” 

****

“Dude? You okay?” 

Azazel turns, finding Gunnora and Alistair standing in the aisle with him. It takes him a long, drawn out moment to remember where he is: the library, Skystead Town, with his friends. His brain takes even longer to separate the past from the now. He can still hear people screaming in his head. 

He didn’t realize he had gotten off the stool in the aisle, or that he had stood up, or that he had walked over to the book titled History of Beggar’s Hole. He didn’t realize that he had lifted a hand, just slightly, as if to take the book from the shelf. And what? Read it? Throw it? 

When he remembers how to move his body, he lowers his arm. But his focus is still captured by the book. It’s still captured by the past, and what happened there. As he stews in this strange mess of past and pain and nostalgia, something creeps in from the back of his mind and gets his gears turning. 

Of course. Of course. How had he not seen this before? How had he not realized? 

Ideas and discoveries and plans are bursting through his mind like a dam has been broken. It all makes sense, why he’s being targeted. He now knows why someone wants him killed. 

He springs into action, taking a step to race back to their table. Only, he suddenly halts as he passes Alistair, raising a hand to his cheek and patting the side of his face.

“Sorry for snapping at you,” he says. He takes off to the table, finding some loose paper and a quill pen. “I just got a great idea.” 

Gunnora and Alistair’s eyes widen. She asks, “What is it?” 

Scribbling out a hasty message, he folds the paper and stuffs it into an envelope. To Alistair, he asks, “How fast can Pepin fly a letter to Ilracorn City and return?” 

****

Alistair estimated a day and a half, and he was right. When Pepin hands Alistair the letter, still giddy from his thrilling flight, Alistair shoots Azazel a glance. Sneaking past Savaric and Grimald, they race out to the gardens where Gunnora had planned to meet them. They find her outside, sitting on the edge of the fountain. When she sees them, she leaps to her feet. 

“Is it here?” She asks. 

Alistair holds up the letter, and she practically shivers with anticipation. Azazel takes the letter, sitting on the fountain’s edge. Alistair and Gunnora join him, each on separate sides, leaning close with anticipation. 

Before opening it, Azazel explains, “After the Beggar’s Hole Massacre, me and a few other kids traveled to Ilracorn City together and joined the orphanage there. I hated it, though, and after a month or so, I ran away.” 

“Did you write this letter to the orphanage?” Gunnora asks as he begins to unseal it. He nods. “Why?” 

“Because,” he says, taking out the letter, “I never learned what happened to the other kids.” 

He unfolds the letter, and Alistair and Gunnora scoot even closer. After adjusting his eyes to the needlessly fancy cursive, he reads, 

'Greetings Mr. Alistair Laurembert,'

“Wait, you forged this letter under my name?” Alistair demands, aghast. 

“Yeah, now shut up.” 

'On behalf of the Ilracorn Orphanage, we were pleased to get your letter. However, considering your inquiry on the whereabouts of children Amabel Druuves, Robert Canning, and Adeline Root, we are unable to satisfy your request due to confidentiality issues. At least, normally, we would not be able to. But for someone as esteemed as yourself, we will make an exception. These children, tragically, perished in a spontaneous fire that struck the orphanage a little over fifteen years ago.'

Azazel’s body goes cold. 

'We hope that this information is able to satisfy any curiosity you may have. If not, please feel free to write us again or to visit sometime. We will prepare you with the best accomodations in all of Bloomfield Island.'

'All the best, 

Ilracorn Orphanage.'

“The other kids… are dead?” Gunnora reads, horrified. 

“In a fire.” Azazel closes the letter, stuffing it back into the envelope. His mind goes back to the torches those men carried the night of the massacre. “A very, very convenient fire.” 

“You think it was done on purpose?” She asks, eyes wide. 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. “All I know is that now, I’m the last survivor of the Beggar’s Hole Massacre, and now someone wants me dead.” 

Said out loud, those two facts sound even more connected. He can sense that Alistair and Gunnora hear it, too. Their bodies are taking on a different type of tension. 

So. If someone is trying to kill him for reasons related to the Beggar’s Hole Massacre, and if they’ve killed the other surviving children, and if they’ve paid a ditto clan bucketloads of money to do it all in secret, that only leaves one question. 

“Why?” Alistair utters.


	9. So, This is Bliss

After realizing someone is after him as the sole survivor of the island’s deadliest slaughter, avoiding death has somehow been easier for Azazel. He’s been avoiding it since the first attempt on his life a month ago, and now, he’s practically a natural. After avoiding his fifth death trap today, he looks Savaric in the eye and asks, “Having fun yet?” 

Savaric looks incredibly exasperated. 

Honestly, he shouldn’t be. He should be relieved. The fact that Azazel can evade every trap set up for him should be music to his ears, but he figures that’s only a small joy in comparison to the stress of sniffing out every trap. And there are a lot of traps. That’s what the killer has seemed to resort to: placing death traps and the sort throughout the city, with enough awareness of his daily routine to plant them accordingly. It seems the killer has abandoned the ditto clan and has taken matters into their own hands. Which, is one of the main reasons it’s been so easy for Azazel to slip by every hit. 

He’s found the traps to be predictable. Almost inflexible. With the ditto clan, there were endless obstacles to face. The possibilities of what could be thrown at him were virtually infinite and always changing. With these traps, it’s the same old thing over and over again. He takes a step, a trap goes off, he avoids it. Easy. 

Another trap goes off. He bends backwards to avoid a harpoon launched at his face. Some people in the town yelp and gasp, but most simply look up and then continue on with their work. It’s been about a week of this, so they’re getting used to the idea of Azazel almost dying every ten seconds. They don’t bat an eye when he stands straight again, resuming his path nonchalantly and eating a cookie. 

It’s almost comedic, he thinks, avoiding all these carefully planned traps so easily. He’d love to see the killer’s face as he slips past each one. He turns to Savaric to ask what he thinks the killer’s feeling right now, only to see him more exasperated than before. He turns back to the street ahead of him and keeps his mouth shut. The only thing worse than a stuffy, expressionless guard is an aggravated guard. He ain’t messing with that. 

He waltzes into the general’s estate after avoiding dozens of more traps along the way. When he walks through the door, hands full of Felicia’s cookies, General Thurston turns to see him. His expression is growing more exhausted with every day. 

“What’s the damage today?” He asks Savaric, who lists nearly a hundred traps in response. Grimald, beside the general, puts a hand over his head in frustration. A sharp sigh escapes General Thurston. To Azazel, he says, “Protecting you is not easy. And apparently, killing you isn’t, either.” 

Now safely in the estate, Savaric leaves Azazel to his own devices. He idly scans the area for something to steal, not really paying attention to what he sees. He’s mostly looking for Alistair, anyhow. 

When he passes the kitchen, he sees Pepin working on lunch inside. Pepin sees him but hardly offers a glance. Azazel holds up a cookie in offering. Immediately, Pepin’s eyes are on him again, and he flinches back. He only holds the cookie in midair for a confused second before he remembers that he did, in fact, once throw a cookie at Pepin. 

He lowers the cookie, tossing it to Pepin in a non-threatening, underhand throw. Pepin fumbles to catch it between his wings. 

“Sorry about the inn,” he says. “Throwing the cookie at you and all.” 

Pepin eyes him suspiciously, as if the cookie might be a bomb designed to explode in his mouth. After a moment of careful deliberation, he takes a cautious bite of it. Seeing that it’s good, he replies, “Apology accepted.” 

He continues onward, passing every room without a care. He knows where Alistair is. He’ll be where he always is. Walking through the hall, he finds it full of wedding preparations. An elegant arch, dozens of flowerpots, and pristine white benches. He turns aside, ignoring them.  
He glances instead at the paintings Alistair had shown him in his tour of the estate. He finds himself appreciating them a little more. Especially one that he had ignored before: an image of two lovers curled up together on a sunny day. It’s titled Aphrodite's Gift. 

Entering the library, he takes a moment to observe from the doorway. Alistair is right where he suspected he’d be, sitting on the window seat. He doesn’t have a book in his hand this time; instead, he’s writing on a piece of loose leaf paper. His eye is completely healed, making his skin perfectly unmarred and practically glowing in the sunshine. The radiant sunlight gives Azazel pause, leaving him with no choice but to recognize its beauty. Then, Alistair sees him. He smiles at him, and Azazel wonders why he was wasting all his time appreciating the stupid sun. 

“Cookie?” He asks, approaching Alistair and sitting beside him. 

Alistair accepts one, nibbling on it as he resumes his work. Azazel leans back, facing Alistair and watching him write. They chat for a little, keeping their comments brief and infrequent. It’s not uncomfortable, Azazel finds. Rather, it’s the opposite. 

Eventually, their conversation drifts to silence. He’s fine with that. Silences between them are peaceful. Like a quiet morning spent lying in bed. 

He does, however, break the silence after a few minutes. After gazing at Alistair for a while, he asks, “What are you writing?” 

Wordlessly, Alistair picks up a loose paper he’s finished with, handing it to Azazel. His eyes soak in the elegant, artful swoops and curves of his writing as he reads. It’s a poem, he realizes about a line in, but it’s different from what Alistair normally writes. It’s not depressing or sad. It’s a love poem. 

Azazel’s eyes flick up to Alistair, who’s too busy writing to notice his look. He looks back down at the words, unable to contain the small smile dancing on his face. 

“I must ask,” Alistair begins, his attention still on the paper before him, “What is the Pearl Theater House like?” 

“Dionisia’s theater? The one right here in town?” 

“Indeed.” 

“It’s an upper class place, built for the rich tourists that come here in the summer. Kinda stuffy and proper. Totally your kind of joint,” he quips, earning himself a harmless shove. “It’s popular, though. Why?” 

“The general is taking me and his friend Eustace to a show in a few hours,” Alistair replies, putting his quill pen down to look at Azazel. “A classical play titled Dear Heart. Have you heard of it?” 

“Of course not,” Azazel says with a grin. “I’m not cultured like you.” 

They share a laugh. 

“But you know,” Azazel starts, “The plays in the afternoon are all snooty and boring. They’ll make you fall asleep. Now, the plays at night: those are good. That’s when the theater is really full.” 

“Oh? And what performances are put on at that time?” 

“Couldn’t tell you the names, but I can tell you that they’re hilarious,” he replies. “Probably because they’re the plays of all of us ‘common folk.’” 

A slight frown appears on Alistair’s face. “I see. The general will likely not permit me to attend one of those, then.” 

“Eh, just go without him.” 

“I wouldn’t want to go alone.” 

“I’ll take you, then.” 

He swears a faint blush rises in Alistair’s cheeks. He blames it on the sunlight. “You would?” 

“Sure, why not.” 

“Perhaps… tonight?” 

“Sounds great.” 

He’s not sure why, but the idea of taking Alistair to a play excites him. Plays have never been his favorite night activity, even the funniest ones. He’d rather hit the bar, or the inn, or the dojo. He suspects it’s not the play that excites him. 

Their conversation turns to other things. Casual things, so casual they’re almost domestic. Did you sleep well? What did you think about breakfast? Did you see Grimald drop that huge stack of papers earlier? By all means, it’s almost a boring conversation, but Azazel finds himself hooked. It’s the kind of conversation he would hear an elderly couple having in passing. He supposes living together for a month does that to people. 

This estate, inadvertently, has become a home in its own right. He’s not entirely sure how, either. At the beginning of this whole mess, this place was his prison. His cage. Now, he finds himself lighting up when he walks through the doors. If he had to, he would stay here forever, in this library, in this moment. Him and Alistair, talking about the chipping paint in the bathroom. 

As their conversation hops from this subject to that, they’re eventually interrupted by a knock at the door frame. They turn, facing the general as he stands in the entrance. 

“Alistair,” he says, holding out a hand for him to take, “Eustace is waiting for us at the theater, my pet.” 

Alistair looks out at the sun, finding it much higher in the sky than when they had begun. Putting his writing aside, he rises, reluctant. But before he goes to dutifully take the general’s outstretched hand, he turns back to Azazel with a secretive smile and whispers, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

Tingles rush through his body. 

When the general and Alistair leave, Azazel finds himself staring at the love poems Alistair left behind. He pours over them, reading them each about a thousand times. He tries to ignore the way they make his heart soar. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long minute for him to remember he does, in fact, have a job to do: stealing. He’s neglected it for so long that he almost forgot. Still sitting, he cranes his neck to glance up at the second level of the library. Nothing there but heavy marble busts and books. He stands. Scanning the ground floor doesn’t prove much more useful. 

Scratching the back of his head, he thinks deeply. What is something the general will miss? What is something the general values? His eyes, involuntarily, make their way back to Alistair’s poetry. An odd sense of déjà vu washes over him. It wasn’t so long ago that he was in this library, doing this same thing, and snooping through Alistair’s poetry and the general’s journal. 

Wait. 

That’s it. 

The general’s journal!

Leaping into action, he hurries to the desk where he last saw the old thing. He rummages through some papers and letters until he finds the leather book underneath. Opening it, he sees inside the front cover: Journal of General Thurston Rambugnon III.

Hadn’t Alistair mentioned that the general writes in this thing non-stop? He flips through several hundred pages, landing on the last one written. He glances at the date. It was written just yesterday. 

A grin stretches over his face. This. This is what he’s been looking for. It’s no pearl necklace or crystal wine glass, it’s more than that. It’s close and personal. If he pulls this off—which he will, he always does—this will be the heist of a lifetime. 

But he can’t just run out of the estate with it now, no way. Pepin, Savaric, and Grimald are still here, and there’s way too big of a chance that they’ll catch him. For now, he needs a place to hide it so he can return to it later and swipe it when he has a better opportunity. He looks around. There’s no use hiding it in the library. With all the time Alistair spends here, he’ll find it in an instant. 

Slipping out of the library, he casually walks the halls and searches for a place to stow the journal. The corridor is mostly bare, offering no place to conceal anything. He could go back to his room and stash it there, but if it’s somehow found, he’ll be immediately proven guilty. Where’s a place he can put it that no one will think to look, but is still accessible to him?

He only gets a second to ponder this before someone calls, “Mister Azazel!” 

He whirls around to see Pepin scampering down the hall towards him. Looking left and right, he sees nothing but paintings on the walls and flower pots on the floor. He does a double-take at the pots. They’re full of wedding flowers, currently placed in the hall until the day of the wedding. They’re just sitting in a clump together, inconspicuously. He dumps the journal inside one of them, one with a slight chip in the vase. 

Pepin arrives, none the wiser. He says, “I wanted to take a moment and thank you for your apology. It’s not everyday someone treats a serviceman like a person.”  
“Yeah, man. No problem.” 

“I wanted to be a mailman,” Pepin huffs, “Not a personal attendant. You wouldn’t believe the ferocity of the competition for securing mail delivery jobs.”  
Azazel taps his fingers against his leg impatiently. “I bet.” 

“I’d also like to say sorry for ruining all the inn’s hard work they’d done for the wedding,” he adds. “I thought they did a beautiful job.”  
“No sweat. You were just following orders.” 

“Master Alistair also thought they did a beautiful job. It was Master Thurston who wanted everything torn down,” Pepin informs, almost balefully. Eyes shifting, he leans in and whispers, “This town shouldn’t be so excited for their wedding. The general’s not that great of a person.” 

“I know,” Azazel says, patting his shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at the flower pot with the hidden journal, but he does smirk. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.” 

____

After successfully finding something to steal, Azazel’s feeling on top of the world. He’s on his way to the bar to celebrate, where he has a pretty strong feeling he’ll find Gunnora. Even if he’s flanked by Grimald, he’s not annoyed. There’s a bounce in his step that even a stuffy babysitter can’t dampen. 

As he enters the town square, he sees more and more wedding decorations going up. He’s not sure on the date of the wedding, but he can feel it creeping ever closer. Just like he can feel himself creeping ever closer to another trap. 

It springs to life as soon as he walks by, another harpoon shooting right for his face. See, this is what he means when he says the killer is inflexible. He’s dodged this very same trap at least a dozen times now. If they wanna kill him, they’ve gotta get a little more creative. 

He sinks into the ground just as the giant arrow rushes overhead. When he pops back out of the floor, he hears the town gasp in surprise as the projectile strikes a wedding banner and tears it down. Two birds with one stone, in his mind. Apparently, Grimald doesn’t think the same. He only looks more frustrated than before. 

Azazel figures he’ll save them both the trouble of dealing with these inane, useless traps until the end of time. Jumping on top of an empty merchant’s cart, he shouts, “Hey!” 

The town square turns to face him, still stunned by the harpoon’s sudden launch. 

“Whoever wants to kill me,” he announces, spreading his challenge through each person, “Should just come out and do it already.” 

The town murmurs, stunned and engaged. They take a few steps closer, listening with bated breath. 

“Quit being a coward, hiding behind assassins and traps,” he declares, a swell of confidence surging through him. Grimald glares at him like he wants to kill him himself for issuing such a bold challenge. But Azazel doesn’t stop. He proclaims, “Just meet me face to face already. And we’ll get this over with.”

____

The bar is rowdy and more alive than ever. People are celebrating the upcoming wedding like it’s their own. Unsurprisingly, Gunnora’s wobbling on her stool, already hammered. She’s singing some drinking song that she clearly can’t remember the words to. Her voice is so slurred that he can barely tell what she’s saying. Grimald, dutifully, takes a seat in the far corner.

When she sees him, her eyes light up. She thrusts her mug of beer into the air and calls, “Oi, Azazel! Over here!” 

He waves, making his way toward her. 

“It’s me!” She yells, enthusiastically pointing to herself as if he can’t see her. “It’s Gunnora!” 

“I see you.” 

“It’s Gunnora, your best friend! I’m right here!” 

He sighs, grinning and shaking his head. 

When he arrives at the bar with her and takes a stool of his own, she asks, “Didja see me?” 

“I sure did, Gunn.” 

“Dude. Dude. Dude,” she says, “The wedding is so close. Like. Wow close. A few weeks. Wow, dude.” 

He wonders if now is the time to break it to her that the general is a complete garbage dump of a person. He figures that rowdy, drunk Gunnora is not the best person to break news to. She’ll end up making a huge scene and then everyone in the bar will know about the terms of the engagement. Alistair would be humiliated. 

“It is close,” he replies. “I can see everyone’s excited.” 

“Hella,” she agrees, nodding. Or, at least he thinks that’s what she’s trying to do. She mostly bobs her head in an uneven up and down motion. “I’m hype. You hype?” 

Not for the wedding, no. But there is something else inside him that’s bursting, like little fireworks. 

“Yeah,” he responds, a smile tugging on his face. “I am.” 

“Then drink up, dude!” She exclaims, practically shoving a mug of beer in his face. “It’s on the house!” 

Muriel glares at her while drying cups. “It is not on the house.” 

“Muuuuriiieeelll,” she whines, scooting her mug closer to the barkeep. Muriel sighs, refilling it and returning it to her. Gunnora grins like a giddy child, pulling the glass closer. “C’mon, ‘zazel: drink!” 

“No thanks,” he says, unable to help the laugh that escapes him. “I’m having a good enough day as is.” 

The loud, rancorous air of the bar is suddenly hushed as soon as the lights on stage flicker to life. Adallinda is about to be on, and everyone’s spirits are already high. This is bound to be a great show. Even Muriel stops to watch. 

Azazel and Gunnora turn to face the stage, watching as the curtains are pulled back in an almost sultry manner. Adallinda’s body emerges, a curving figure of heavenly blues and whites, and her eyes open slowly to reveal glittering colors like a treasure chest. Everyone’s breath is sucked away in an instant. 

The altaria opens her mouth. She begins to sing. 

The very first note, and she’s already enchanted the room. She sings in high pitches of a young lover discovering true affection for the first time. It evokes an innocent yet sensual image of a first love, an unconditional love. Azazel’s never found himself the sentimental type swept up by fairytales. But something in her voice carries the story to him, meets him where he is, and touches him in the most tender places of his heart. 

As he listens more deeply, he begins to lose the storyline and focus more on the feeling. It’s as if his soul is riding on every sound, climbing to unimaginable heights as she raises her pitch. Her voice is crisp and clear, like windchimes, and twice as delicate and sweet. With her voice alone, she’s able to convince him that he’s the young lover in this song, finally having found what he hadn’t known he’d been searching for all along. 

The song ends before he realizes it. Clapping erupts from the audience, and several patrons wipe tears from their eyes. It was a moving performance, no doubt. Azazel feels like he came into this bar a different person than he is now. 

After several hours of enjoying Gunnora’s drunken company and laughing at her trying to spell her own name on a napkin, Azazel walks her home and bids her goodnight. Not a single trap goes off, and Grimald seems much less vexxed now. Everyone he passes on the street has a smile on their face. It’s almost as if this hasn’t been a good day just for him. It’s as if the whole town is feeling higher than they’ve ever been. 

When he arrives at the general’s, he strolls into the lounge and finds General Thurston and Savaric by the fireplace. The general looks to him and asks, “So?” 

Grimald lists the traps that went off on their way to the bar. The general rubs his forehead, stressed. Azazel considers that a little cherry on top of his good day.  
“I would love to keep a record of these,” he laments, gazing into the fire with a troubled look. “But I can’t seem to find my journal.” 

Make that two cherries on top. 

He excuses himself to bed rather early, and when met with the general’s questioning stare, he explains that all those pesky traps really have him spent. The general accepts his excuse and bids him a good night, and Azazel makes his way to the guest bedroom, ridding himself of the general and the colonels.  
When he gets to his room, he sits on the bed. He doesn’t lie down or get under the covers. He’s not here to sleep, he’s here to wait. 

The night goes on, creeping away slowly. The rest of the house gradually falls into a slumber, enveloping the estate in a peaceful quiet. High in the sky, the moon continues to rise. Azazel watches it. He watches the moonlight spill over the gardens where he chased Alistair, over the fountain where he danced with Alistair. He can’t get the song Adallinda sang out of his head.

That’s when the door behind him creaks open. He turns. Inside, Alistair softly pushes the door open, holding an oil lantern. Azazel loves the glow it casts on his face. 

“Ready?” Alistair whispers. 

Azazel stands, gesturing for Alistair to follow him. He does, closing the door behind him. Leading him to the balcony, he floats into the air and past the railing, hovering high above the ground. Alistair glances down at the gardens below, hesitating, so he offers him a hand. With a faint smile, Alistair accepts. 

They drift down to the gardens, sneaking into the hedge maze. Alistair leads the way, guiding him through every confusing twist and turn the maze has to offer. They pass the fountain pouring beautiful streams of water into the base. The water is like a mirror to the starry sky. He remembers happening upon Alistair singing there and writing poetry. He wishes he could go back to that moment and appreciate it, just a second longer. 

When they exit the maze, the house is far behind them. They slip to the streets, still hand in hand, making their way to the theater. Azazel doesn’t come to the theater often. He used to a lot, when he and Gunnora were kids. They would sneak in and hide in the rafters so they could get in free to the raunchy adult plays that no kids should’ve been watching. That’s why, by instinct, he leads Alistair toward the back door. 

He feels Alistair hesitate. “The front door is the other way. We must go there to pay.” 

Alistair gestures to his handbag, probably filled with money for the ticket expenses. Throwing a mischievous glance over his shoulder, Azazel says, “We’re not paying, doll.” 

Alistair gasps, mortified as he pulls him in through the back door. When the door closes with a final click, Azazel watches Alistair resign himself to his fate. He has to grin so that he won’t laugh out loud and get caught. 

“This is the most reprehensible thing I’ve ever done,” Alistair utters, as if he’s just gotten away with murder. 

A snicker escapes him. He jokes, “You wanna close your eyes so you can claim in good conscience you didn’t witness us do such despicable things?”  
Alistair pauses, thinking. Honestly, Azazel hadn’t expected him to consider it.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. Azazel covers his mouth to silence his laugh to a snort. 

He leads Alistair up to the rafters, careful to make sure he doesn’t bump him into anything. Alistair doesn’t just close his eyes, he covers them with a hand, as if the sins of these atrocious deeds are blinding to him. Azazel has half the mind to forget the play and just take Alistair to cause trouble around town and watch him squirm. 

From the platform high above the stage, Azazel looks down and sees the guests filing into their seats. Wooden planks crisscross near the ceiling, giving him plenty of free space to choose the best seat up in the rafters. Removing his hand from Alistair’s, he wraps an arm around his waist to keep him steady as they journey carefully across the ceiling. Alistair scoots closer to him. 

When he finds them a perfect seat in the middle, he helps Alistair to sit. Alistair, apprehensively, opens his eyes. He gazes down at the audience below, then looks to the stage. 

“I must confess, the view is exceptional,” he admits, gazing at the brightly lit stage with wide eyes. “Much better than the seats the general and I had.” 

The play begins shortly, with a brief introduction by the theater’s owner, an elderly, rich jellicent named Dionisia. She’s quite theatrical herself, and she really sells the play as some great work of art although everyone knows it’s gonna be full of dick jokes. When she steps aside, the curtains fall back. Actors take the stage, and the story begins. The acting is great and the play is hilarious, but if he’s being honest, that’s not his main focus right now. Right now, he’s too busy watching Alistair’s aghast expressions at every raunchy joke. 

Leaning close to Azazel, Alistair whispers, “They can say that?!” 

The audience laughs at another inappropriate joke that Azazel misses. He’s still laughing, though. 

Alistair tries hard not to laugh. He tries really, really hard, but Azazel can see the twinkle in his eyes that comes when he hides his smiles. Stubbornly, though, he keeps his stoic walls up as he’s bombarded with the most hysterical one-liners Azazel has ever heard. There’s another dick joke. A smile twitches onto his face, but he fights it back down. 

The actors on stage perform a classic slapstick routine. It’s really well done, and it has the audience in fits. Azazel himself is swept up along with them, but Alistair fights to maintain his composure. He’s too decent and proper to laugh at something like this, of course. But his walls are crumbling. No one can deny this play is humorous, not even Alistair. His hand flutters up to his mouth to conceal a small smile. 

One joke finally hits the nail on the head for him. An actor, angrily chasing after a dunce who stole his wallet, gripes, “The only thing worse than getting robbed by a thief is getting robbed by a dumb one!”

The audience roars with cackles, and that’s when Alistair cracks. He snorts, trying to contain his laughter, but after a failed second of that, he throws his head back and laughs. Azazel laughs at the sight, thoroughly entertained as Alistair laughs until he cries. Through his tears, he points wordlessly at Azazel. 

“That’s you,” he giggles, still lost in fits of laughter. 

Azazel’s still grinning. “Me?” 

“Yes, you! You’re the dumb thief!” 

“Oh yeah? If I’m so dumb, how’d I do this?” He asks, holding up Alistair’s handbag and wiggling it in front of his face. 

Alistair gasps, patting himself down and realizing he’s been robbed. He lunges to try and grab the bag back, but Azazel holds it out of his reach. After several minutes of struggling and horseplay, they end up in a pile on top of each other. Azazel relents, laughing, returning the bag to him. Alistair swats him harmlessly, still smiling. 

When the play wraps up and the actors offer silly bows, Azazel leads Alistair back off the rafters and to the platform. They sneak down the stairs, hiding from employees who pass by, Alistair covering his eyes the whole time. Soon enough, they slip out the door, returning to the night. 

It’s dark. It’s late. Very, very late. No one but them walks the streets, as the rest of the audience is likely still milling about inside. Only the moon is their witness as they make their way back to the estate, fooling around. 

“I cannot believe you stole my bag.” 

“I can’t believe you snuck into a show. For shame, Alistair.” 

“That was your idea!” 

“For shame.” 

Alistair shakes his head, exhaling a short laugh. “I cannot believe they were allowed to say such things on stage. It was incredibly indecent.” 

“And hilarious.” 

“Quite.” 

“You liked it?” Azazel asks, and Alistair nods. “How did it compare to that fancy rich play you went to earlier?” 

Alistair puts a hand to his chin in thought. “They were both excellent. But I found I enjoyed myself more at this play. With you.” 

He adds that last part as if hesitant to admit it. Azazel sneaks a glance at him, seeing him steadily watching the road ahead of them. Earlier today, when he thought he saw Alistair blush, he blamed it on the sun. Right now, there’s no sun to blame it on. 

He shifts his eyes down to the oil lamp in Alistair’s hands. Offering a hand, he says, “Here, let me hold that.” 

“I’m quite all right.” 

“You’re holding a bag and a light and I’ve got nothing.” 

“That’s because I’m afraid you’ll run off with it,” he teases. 

“And leave you alone in the dark? Never,” he swears, feigning innocence. Alistair shakes his head at him, but doesn’t fight him when he takes the lamp from his hands. “If it makes you feel better, hold onto me so you know your lamp isn’t going anywhere.” 

“Gladly,” Alistair quips, linking their arms. 

Walking through the street, arm in arm, Azazel lighting their way, he can’t help the waves of serenity that wash over him. It feels as though they’ve done this a hundred times: spent an evening out and then walked home in each other’s arms. Azazel knows it’s only been once, but something inside him feels like it was meant to be more. Like this is what his days are meant to be. 

He allows himself to indulge in a fantasy, for just an instant. Waking up every morning, finding Alistair in the library writing love poems, and taking him out for a night would be a dream. There’s a simplicity to it that he finds irresistible. It’s like his heart has finally found a home in which it belongs. 

“You know,” he begins, and Alistair turns his head to face him. “I’m glad that you’re writing happier poetry, now. Your poems were great before, but it’s nice that you’re happy enough to start writing that way.” 

“Well,” Alistair says, pink-faced, “It’s all because of you.” 

If Azazel had an actual, physical heart, he’s sure it would’ve stopped. Or maybe it would’ve skipped a beat, or maybe it would’ve sped up. It would’ve reacted in some obvious way, stirred to life by the lightness in his chest and the butterflies in his stomach. He wonders if Alistair feels the same way, not having a heart but still aware that his non-existent pulse is quickening. 

They make their way down the winding road back to the estate, entertaining each other with small talk and light-hearted banter. Every word he says, he says with an eagerness he hasn’t felt before. He wants to make Alistair laugh, he realizes, as he makes his third witty comment. He succeeds, and triumph surges through him. Alistair’s laugh is delicate and soft, like a song. He wants to hear it again, so he prepares another joke, only for it to be caught in his throat when his attention drops to Alistair’s supple lips. 

Journeying through the garden is easier this time around, but he still allows Alistair to keep his arm around his to guide him. They pass the fountain. He’s sure it’s still as beautiful as ever, but this time, he finds himself passing up the opportunity to gaze at it in favor of gazing at Alistair. 

They float up to the guest room balcony, slipping quietly inside. Azazel closes the glass doors behind them, careful not to make a sound. The house is as silent as they left it. No one is aware of their little adventure. 

“I guess this is where I tell you good night,” he says, turning to Alistair. Alistair’s smile is gone, replaced with a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?”  
Alistair ponders his words before speaking. “I… am reluctant to return to bed with the general when I find that I enjoy myself much more with you. I wish I could stay with you and not return to my own fiancé. Foolish, isn’t it?” 

The air in the room grows thick. It’s as if something is settling upon them, something heavy and hot. It makes it hard to breathe. 

Azazel takes a step closer to him. “I don’t think so. If I’m being honest, I feel the same way.” 

Alistair’s eyelashes flutter as he gazes at Azazel, his cheeks flushed. “You do?” 

“I wish you would stay,” he admits, reaching a hand out to him. He cups his cheek carefully, allowing Alistair to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. “I wish you would stay with me.” 

He feels a shiver run through Alistair. It runs through him, too. They gaze into each other’s eyes as if seeing them for the first time. 

“Perhaps,” Alistair utters, breathless, “I should.” 

They stare at each other for a long, drawn out moment, like an eternity of their own. It’s Alistair who moves first, gently taking Azazel’s face in his hands. His eyes closing, he leans in. Azazel does the same. 

They kiss. 

It’s like a dream. His head is hazy and nothing feels real. It feels too good to be real, too soft, too tender, too right. He can do nothing but kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. It’s as if that’s all he was born to do. 

Alistair’s lips are soft. Impossibly soft, like satin or velvet or heaven. They’re enchanting, those mesmerizing lips, stealing his thoughts and twisting them until they think of nothing but Alistair. Alistair. Perfect Alistair. 

His other hand makes its way to his waist, pulling him closer. A quiet noise escapes Alistair as Azazel draws him into a deeper kiss. His hands itch like they do when he wants to steal something, but the energy is tenfold that. His hands want to wander every inch of Alistair’s body, exploring him and discovering him. But he keeps his hands perfectly still, allowing only the hand on Alistair’s cheek to gingerly stroke his skin. He wants to take this slow. Alistair is kissing him shyly, meekly. His hands haven’t even shifted from his face. It’s as if he’s never done this before. Knowing Alistair, he probably hasn’t. 

When they break away, they don’t go far. Alistair’s lips are only an inch away from his own, his eyes modestly downcast. Azazel slides his hand under Alistair’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. 

“Stay,” he whispers.

Alistair shudders, as if he’s under attack. His body leans into Azazel’s. 

“Ask me again,” he says, “To stay.” 

Azazel kisses him. “Stay. Stay with me, Alistair.” 

Alistair wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him with a new fervor. He returns passion for passion, giving into the temptation to feel Alistair’s body. His hands pick up every tremble and shift, every tension and melt. The air between them heats with desire and longing, a longing he hadn’t realized he’d been burying away until now. 

It’s Alistair who breaks away, and it’s Alistair who leads him to bed. He lies back, beckoning Azazel closer. He obeys eagerly, stealing his lips again. Laying Alistair beneath him, he captures him in a long, burning kiss. 

Alistair’s arms slip around him, a hand traveling tantalizingly down his spine. His every touch sends tingles through Azazel’s body, like drops of paradise gracing his skin. Even if Alistair’s never entertained a lover before, he’s a fast learner. He’s already making Azazel weak. 

He breaks away from Alistair’s lips to kiss his neck. A small gasp escapes Alistair and he whispers something Azazel doesn’t catch. His hand, almost with a mind of its own, snakes down Alistair’s body and finds itself touching him intimately. 

“Azazel,” Alistair exhales, his eyes closed. A shudder courses through him. “Yes.” 

Satisfied with the result and eager for more, Azazel focuses his attention on pleasuring him. It’s not difficult. Alistair is sensitive. A moan escapes him, which he buries in Azazel’s neck. Panting, he kisses Azazel’s shoulder and utters something in another language. 

It’s impossible to ignore his own arousal. It’s impossible to pretend he doesn’t want Alistair, that he doesn’t want to make love to him. He gently bites Alistair’s shoulder, listening to the choked off gasp that escapes him. Pressing his hips into Alistair’s he murmurs, “I want you.” 

Alistair catches his gaze, his eyes sharp and dark and aflame with desire. “Then why do you hesitate? Take me.” 

Azazel obliges to his request. 

____

Some time later, all is quiet. They lie under the blankets, Azazel on his back and Alistair curled up against his side. Alistair is asleep. Azazel’s arm is around him. He gazes up at the ceiling, his hand idly stroking Alistair’s back. A smile dances on his face, not going anywhere anytime soon. 

Today was a really, really good day.


	10. The Duel

It’s been seven days since he and Azazel began their illicit love affair. In natural fashion for Azazel, he’s made love to him much more than seven times. Alistair simply cannot say no to the man. Not that he’d want to, anyhow. He’s far too charming and suave for Alistair to resist. 

They had been enjoying a stroll through the gardens and the occasional bout of Alistair writing down some lines in a poem when Azazel began to sneak kisses and touches from him. Currently, they’re seated on the edge of the fountain, Alistair desperately attempting to keep pace with Azazel’s ravenous kissing. If there’s one thing Azazel is good at (which there isn’t just one: there are many), it’s kissing him senseless. Alistair is quite inclined to surrender himself and allow Azazel to do as he pleases. 

However, he manages to silence such an imprudent desire, pushing Azazel off him when he grows frisky. Azazel doesn’t look disappointed. Instead, he smirks like a man who knows he’ll be getting what he wants, one way or another. How insufferable. 

“Darling,” Alistair says, adoring how easily the endearment rolls off his tongue, “We must be careful.” 

“I know, you’ve told me everyday,” he replies, dipping his head down to kiss his neck. Alistair only allows if for a second or two before regaining his will and shooing him away. “Relax, doll. No one’s gonna see us.” 

“We could be easily spotted from the guest bedroom window,” he points out, nodding to the window of the room in which Azazel had been staying. Azazel ought to have known that himself, having stayed over a month there. He wonders what goes on in that head of his, sometimes. “There is a clear sight from the room, clearest in midday.” 

“No one’s gonna go in my room,” he denies, leaning back on the marble. Stretched out so indolently with a careless grin on his face, he looks as much of a prick as the first day they met. “Well, maybe except for you later tonight.” 

“I will not,” he refuses, and Azazel raises his eyebrows in an amused challenge. “The general has grown questionable about my frequent disappearances. I have told him that I am simply sleeping in the other guest room, as I have been oft to do, but he remains suspicious nonetheless. I must remain in his bed tonight.” 

Azazel grimaces, repulsed at the idea. Alistair doesn’t remember himself when he had grown numb to the idea of sharing a bed with his predator. Sometime a few years back, he presumes. 

“I get it,” Azazel says, taking his hand. Alistair laces their fingers together. “But I don’t like it. I don’t like him.” 

“Neither do I. But it is a task I must endure, should we wish to continue our affair,” he explains, squeezing Azazel’s hand. “Should the general grow suspicious and discover us, he will surely challenge you to a duel of honor. And that’s a fight you will not win.” 

Azazel grins. “Wanna bet?” 

“No, I most certainly do not ‘wanna bet’,” he retorts, and Azazel laughs for whatever inane reason. He huffs, but there’s a smile tugging on his face. There always is, when Azazel’s around. “You’re despicable.” 

“You love it.” 

Alistair allows Azazel to steal another kiss, albeit a brief one. Kissing out in the open this way makes him nervous. 

“I have written you something,” he says, turning back to his notebook. Tearing the short poem out, he offers it to Azazel. Azazel reads it as he adds, “Consider it a token of my affections. Someday, I will marry the general. I simply wish that you know where my heart belongs despite that.” 

Azazel’s eyes seem more crestfallen with every line he reads of the poem. Alistair is confused. There is nothing sorrowful in the poem. Has he done something wrong? Are letters of love only exchanged between characters in books, and not in real life? 

“I… apologize if I have done something incorrect,” he says, and Azazel glances up at him. “I am not yet familiar with acceptable expressions of romance. I did not mean to upset you. Is poetry not a suitable gift?” 

“No, that’s not it—” 

“Should I have written a haiku instead? Perhaps I should’ve forgone iambic pentameter?” 

“Ali.” 

“Lovers give each other sonnets in the novels I have read, but my novels have proven insufficient in accurately depicting the real world. If I have breached a social custom, please forgive—” 

“Alistair,” he says, snapping him out of his rambling. “The poem is beautiful. I love it.” 

Alistair feels himself flush. He clears his throat and forces it away. “Oh. I’m glad.” 

“It’s just,” Azazel begins, only to cut himself off with a sigh. He gazes down at the poem, forlorn. “I don’t know. I wish you wouldn’t marry him.” 

His chest tightens, almost like it’s trying to kill him.

He turns his head away. “We’ve discussed this.” 

“I know, but—here, listen,” he says, turning to face him and straddling the marble edges of the fountain in the process. With one foot in the water, he takes Alistair by the shoulders and states, “Run away with me.” 

“I cannot.” 

“Let’s get out of here, out of this estate, out of this town, hell, let’s get off this island!” He exclaims, proposing such dishonorable schemes that Alistair could faint. “We can change our names, move into a little seaside cottage. You can write your poems and I’d get a job, and—” 

“Listen to yourself,” Alistair bites, turning his head to glare at him. “You really think any of that would be enough to stop the general?” 

“We wouldn’t let him hurt you. Fulk and Gunnora, they’re both really well trained soldiers. They’d keep you safe. I’d keep you safe.” 

“You really think I would no longer be bound by contract?” 

Azazel groans, putting a hand to his forehead. “Forget the damn contract.” 

“I will do nothing of the sort.” 

“You’re really going to let this thing ruin your life?” 

“I am going to see it through to the end,” he declares, his words sharp. Azazel turns away from him, scowling. “A contract is a promise. And I do not break promises.” 

____

They have, thus far, managed to keep their affair a secret for another whole week. Alistair is both impressed and relieved. Even with the constant supervision of Savaric or Grimald, they have eluded discovery. He suspects that is because neither Savaric nor Grimald care for anything except their jobs, much like their dear general himself. 

Walking through the marketplace, they are accompanied by General Thurston for protection. Alistair does not enjoy having the company of his fiancé and his lover simultaneously. He is always watching his words and has already caught himself on the verge of using terms of endearment towards Azazel several times. Worse, he is dutifully holding General Thurston’s arm as they meander through the town, gazing longingly at Azazel all the while. 

The town is nearly prepared for their wedding. A spot has been cleared at the cliffside for the ceremony to be held, and decorations have been placed all over town. The guests are here, not including his father, who cited pressing business as an excuse for forgoing the wedding, and they are all filled with bubbly cheer. It’s a fairytale wedding. On the outside, that is. Alistair quite feels like crying whenever someone asks if he’s excited to be wed. 

But his feelings on his impending fate are pushed to the side as they travel the town. It seems as though every step Azazel takes is met with some bloody retaliation. He had been informed about the traps, and assured that they would do Azazel no harm, and then assured again through Azazel’s gentle kisses, but they still catch him off guard everytime they make an appearance. The townsfolk seem far too used to these attempts on his life to care. Even Azazel himself doesn’t seem bothered. It’s as if it’s any other common occurrence. Alistair cannot find it in himself to feel the same. Every trap that activates shoots floods of adrenaline through him, much like the harpoon that now soars past where Azazel’s head had just been. 

Alistair’s hand rushes to his chest as if his insides might leap out, and the general hastily pulls him from the danger. Azazel nonchalantly leans his head to the side, allowing the arrow to whip past his head and plunge itself into a nearby tree trunk. 

Again, he catches himself before calling Azazel ‘my love’. “Azazel, are you quite all right?” 

“Fine,” he replies casually, having the audacity to yawn. “That one was way too easy.” 

Turning to the general, Alistair privately hisses, “Is it not your job to protect him? Why has no progress been made in capturing his killer or disarming these traps?” 

General Thurston has no response, but his expression exudes frustration. That’s one sentiment he supposes they can agree on: anger at the inability to stop Azazel’s would-be killer. 

They walk through the market some more, Azazel eyeing the rich that pass by. Alistair thinks he ought to be eyeing the town for traps and not for targets to steal. He tries to do some of the searching for him, but cannot find a single trap. Whoever puts these contraptions together certainly knows how to disguise them. He hopes no townsfolk accidentally set them off. 

As they arrive at the merchant’s spot in town, General Thurston glances around. Alistair almost thinks he’s scanning the area for traps, but of course, he is not. Facing Alistair, he wonders, “What would you like as a wedding gift, my pet?” 

“Nothing.” 

A pause. The general looks around, as if searching for ideas. Turning back to him, he asks, “And what date will we set for the wedding? Your father has urged us to marry sometime this summer.” 

“Yes, I am aware.” 

“I have dutifully fulfilled every request you have made, have I not?” He inquires, patting Alistair’s hand that rests on his arm. Alistair is inclined to recoil, but he maintains his composure. “Per request of your mother, I allowed you two years after the initial agreement of our wedding date to hone your talents in language. I agreed to wait until your mother regained her health to have the wedding, and I agreed to allow you time to mourn after her passing.” 

He does not appreciate memories of his mother coming out of the general’s filthy mouth. He hopes this is evident in his tone. “I recall.” 

“So,” he says, “When shall we wed?” 

Alistair looks away. “I would like to explore more of this island, first.” 

The general frowns, turning his attention back to the road ahead of them. Alistair feels no sympathy for him. He will push back the wedding as far as he can, heedless of the general’s pathetic whimperings. 

After their conversation dies out, he realizes Azazel is gone. Panic crashes over him instantly. Has he been abducted? How did Alistair allow himself to be so distracted? He only frets a minute longer before he finds Azazel a short distance away. 

He stands over at a merchant’s cart, eyeing the goods on the table. The merchant keeps a close eye on him as well, likely wary of his reputation. Azazel offers them a friendly smile and wave, making small talk. Meanwhile, with his ghostly abilities, he slowly knocks an item off a different merchant’s table, dropping it into his hand behind his back. 

Alistair will never condone theft. But he will confess that Azazel is quite excellent at it. 

With both merchants none the wiser, Azazel saunters back. As he gets closer, Alistair can see what it is he has stolen: a quill pen, dyed with streaks of gold between the natural white color. 

“Here,” Azazel says, offering it to him. “So you can write more nerdy poems.” 

Alistair gives him a disapproving look. Quiet enough so the general won’t hear, he says, “I will not accept a stolen gift.” 

Azazel rolls his eyes, as if he’s being the difficult one. He returns to the merchant’s table, slyly replaces the pen, chats with them for a moment or two, then digs into his satchel and pulls out a bag of coins. After paying for the pen, he returns once more.

“Happy?” He asks, presenting it to Alistair. 

Alistair takes it, admiring the beauty. “You didn’t have to purchase it with your own money. I have more than enough to satisfy the cost.” 

“I know.” 

“I will repay the expense.” 

“Don’t,” Azazel laughs, a smile tugging on his face. “It’s a gift.” 

Something inside of Alistair flutters and soars. When a thief buys you something, he thinks, you know how dearly they hold you. 

He fights a smile as he gazes at the pen, appreciating his newest treasure. Oddly, it makes him think of two vastly different things at once: Pepin and letters. But those two seemingly arbitrary things do remind him of something very, very important. He thinks back to the letter they sent to the Ilracorn City Orphanage. He thinks about what they had discovered. 

“Please,” Alistair says, unlinking his arm from the general’s, “Excuse me a moment.” 

General Thurston regards him with reluctance in his eyes. Alistair, accordingly, braces himself for opposition. 

“My pet,” he begins, “I would rather you remain by my side. With all of these traps laid throughout town…” 

“I will only be travelling to the inn,” Alistair assures, gesturing to the nearby building. “You will be able to see me safely enter and exit. The only persons inside the inn are our wedding guests and the employees. I see no harm.” 

“At least allow me to escort you inside.” 

“Absolutely not,” he refuses, fixing the general with a unrelenting expression. “You must remain out here, guarding Azazel. Azazel, per your wedding instructions, cannot enter the inn. You two will remain here while I briefly enter the inn.” 

“Pet, I—” 

“Surely, you don’t think me incompetent enough to lose my way from the inn and back,” he challenges. He ignores when Azazel scoffs behind him a quiet ‘yes’. “I promise I will return in prompt fashion. Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

The general, although many things, is not a liar. As much as he may hesitate to do so, he eventually shakes his head in response to Alistair’s question.   
“Good. Then I shall return shortly.”

Before the general can deny him, he spins around and makes his way down the path to the inn. When he enters the building, he is loath to see that it is of an entirely different atmosphere than he initially found it. It’s calm, silent, and pristine. It reeks of the general’s doing. 

Those inside are his wedding guests. He knows none of them. They are the general’s friends, family, and acquaintances. Unfortunately, they know him, and they pester him with incessant questions and comments about his wedding. 'Are you excited? Have you set the date yet? How unconventional, not knowing when you’re going to wed but having the whole ceremony planned.' He offers them all polite, concise responses, hurrying his way to the back. 

He finds dear Gunnora in the employee’s room with her father. When she spots him, she waves and says, “Hey, buddy.” 

“Hello. Um, buddy,” he replies. “Could I bother you to ask a short question? Regarding Azazel.” 

“Sure, shoot.”

“As we have previously concluded, Azazel’s killers are targeting him to rid the last survivor of the Beggar’s Hole Massacre,” he states, and Gunnora nods. Fulk’s eyes widen in shock. It seems she has not divulged all the information to her parents. He hates to startle Fulk further, but he presses on. “I wonder: why would anyone wish to do such a thing? What could they gain by wiping out all of the former residents of that place?” 

Gunnora scratches her head. “Honestly, I don’t know, man. The massacre happened when I was really little, and I only remember hearing about it in passing. Azazel would know more about it than me.” 

He frowns, fiddling with the pen Azazel gifted him. “Yes, I suspected as much. However, I worry that if I ask him of his past there, he will become upset as he did in the library.” 

“Well, you know,” Fulk pipes up, sitting a little straighter, “When I was a colonel on the mainland, a lot of people considered this whole island lawless. They thought it brought down the reputation of the whole country, and Beggar’s Hole was a big part of that. But since that place has been wiped out, those comments have stopped. This place has even become a tourist attraction for the same people who hated it only decades ago.”

Alistair ponders his words for a while. They mean nothing to him, but he doesn’t discredit them as useless. He just has to find the door they unlock. 

“Thank you, Fulk,” he says, bowing his head to him. Then, to Gunnora. “Thank you, Gunnora. I appreciate your help and your hospitality towards my guests.” 

They bid each other farewell, and Alistair makes his way back outside. He endures the prying inquiries of his guests again, managing to escape them in a reasonable time. He exits the building, fiddling with his pen and sighing. He had hoped to make some significant progress in his short chat with Gunnora. He is quite sick of worrying over Azazel. 

When he looks up from his pen, he sees General Thurston and Azazel standing in the street where he left them. Azazel looks as though he’s just gotten on the general’s last nerve with some snarky comment and is quite pleased with himself. Alistair brings a hand to his face to hide his smile. The general turns to him. His eyes widen. 

“Alistair, look out!” He shouts.

Alistair halts, confused. What is it that he’s looking out for?

It happens a moment later: a rush of air sounds beside him, as if something has been shot at him. It turns out, something has. In the corner of his eye, he can see a harpoon trap rocketing towards him. Even if time has seemed to slow down, he’s no Azazel. He won’t be able to avoid this. 

Instead of being struck in the side of the head, he’s hit from ahead. Azazel slams into his body and knocks him aside just as the arrow passes overhead. It slices the satchel’s strap, cutting it in half and sending the bag tumbling. The contents spill out of it, some hitting Alistair in the face. They hit the ground, Azazel above Alistair, right when the projectile imbeds itself in the inn wall. 

Gasps and yelps of fear echo through the street. He supposes they’ve never seen someone else nearly injured by these traps. Azazel immediately props himself up, looking down at Alistair with concern. 

“You okay?” He asks, his fingers brushing Alistair’s shoulder, the most intimate sign of affection he can give in public. 

“Yes,” Alistair utters, almost unable to find the words. “Thank you.” 

The world around them seems to slow, if only for a moment. In that instant, he could truly believe it was just him and Azazel in the whole universe. 

Then, it all abruptly returns with the general hastily scooping Alistair up. 

“Alistair! Oh, thank the heavens you’re unhurt,” the general exclaims, brushing dirt and grass off of him. Cupping his cheek, he says, “You must be so frightened. Let’s get you home.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Thank you, Azazel,” the general says, ignoring him. Azazel nods, quickly picking up his fallen things and stuffing them into his satchel. General Thurston stoops down, collecting the items as well. “You have just saved my fiancé’s life. I see no possible way that I could ever… repay…” 

General Thurston falls silent, examining one of Azazel’s things in hand. Azazel’s whole body is tense. Alistair doesn’t realize why until he discovers what the general is holding. 

The love sonnet. 

Dread trickles through Alistair like drops of blood. His mind races in a desperate search for a solution to this delicate situation, but he finds nothing. The poem is addressed. The poem is signed. There is no interpretation but the honest one, and the honest one is what will ruin everything. 

“I see,” the general says.

His worst fears have been realized. 

The general's face is dark and grim. “So. This is how it’s been.” 

They've been discovered. 

Alistair hasn’t feared the general since he was a child, but now, he finds himself shaking. Cautiously, he places a hand on the general’s arm. “Sir, allow me to explain…” 

“There is no explanation necessary,” he states. His eyes are sharp, bitter and narrow. They’re locked on Azazel. 

“I—I seduced him,” he stammers, hurrying to float between Azazel and the general as he stands. “It is my fault. I lost sight of my duty to you and I—sincerely apologize, just please don’t…” 

“I always recognized that you two were close,” General Thurston declares, his voice grave. He stares down Azazel with a burning, smoldering fire. “But I did not realize it went to such depraved lengths.” 

Behind him, Azazel mutters, “You’re one to talk about depraved.” 

Alistair flinches. The general, his indignation sparked, demands, “Excuse me?” 

The town’s attention is on them. They’re all trying to understand what’s happening. Even Gunnora and her family have gathered on the inn porch to watch in nervous silence. All at once, all of Skystead will know of their affair. 

“I have treated you with nothing short of generosity,” the general proclaims, his tone dangerously volatile. “I provided you protection in the face of death, a home, meals, my trust! And how have you repaid me? By bringing danger to my fiancé and then defiling him?!” 

The crowd around them gasps, appalled at the revelation. They turn to each other and murmur, their expressions disgusted and outraged. In front of everyone, they’re being shamed. In front of everyone, they’re being disgraced. Alistair knows why. It is not simply an act of petty vindictiveness on behalf of the general. 

“General, please,” he whispers, head submissively downcast. Anything to appease him. Anything to avoid this. “I will return home with you. I will do anything you wish. Just please, do not—” 

The general holds up a hand to silence him. Alistair obeys, and the general takes him by the arm and draws him aside. Facing Azazel, he announces, “I hereby challenge you to a duel.” 

The town falls silent. Not even the wind dares to blow. Any person in their right mind knows to be afraid, to be apprehensive, to be alert. 

Azazel, clearly, is not one of those people. With a nonchalant shrug, he says, “M‘kay.” 

“To the death,” General Thurston concludes, stony and dark. 

Now, Azazel’s paying attention. Everyone knows to kill a general is a federal offense punishable by death. Should Azazel kill him, he’ll be executed. Should he not, he’ll be killed in duel. There is no other alternative. 

Alistair takes his arm. “General, please—!” 

He shoves him off. “Begin!” 

The battle begins more fiercely than anything Alistair’s ever seen. Clashing of offensive moves and hacking of the general’s metallic fins ring through the air. Alistair has seen the general spar countless times and has seen Azazel in a few instances of brief skirmishes. They are both adept fighters in their own right, but he knows how this battle ends. He knows that in every area, the general simply outmatches him. 

Someone grabs his shoulders from behind. He whirls around, finding Gunnora with a mortified look in her eyes. 

“Azazel—the general—what’s happening?” She practically begs for an answer, her voice quivering. Her entire family stands behind her, equally terrified. Fulk holds his wife and children close, tension marring his frame. 

He opens his mouth to give her an answer, but finds none. 

The duel blazes on with barbarity. Azazel, slick and wily, vanishes and materializes at will to confound the general. But General Thurston, hardened with decades upon decades of experience, pins Azazel’s tricks down before they can even begin. Azazel may give him a good fight, but he won’t draw blood. No one ever does. 

With a mighty slash, the general strikes Azazel back with his arm. He soars through the air, slamming against the inn wall. The wedding guests gasp and falter back, as if about to faint. Azazel pushes himself up to stand. He shakes. He falls to a knee. 

Seeing that Azazel is losing strength, the general advances for the kill. Weak murmurs of fright rise up from the crowd. Seeing Azazel like this, seeing him on a knee and struggling to return to his feet, Alistair is reminded of the night they nearly died at the hands of the assassin. He can see Azazel’s face in that moment, petrified and in agony, and it mirrors this moment precisely. The one difference is that Gunnora will not be able to save him. The only person who can save Azazel is himself. He hastens to him.

Towering over Azazel, the general glowers down at him. Raising an arm high to smite him, he says, “May God have mercy on your soul.” 

Just as he swings his arm down to strike the life from him, Alistair flings his arms around Azazel and cries, “Stop!” 

The general’s razor sharp fin halts less than an inch from his face. Alistair shudders, exhaling. 

“If I promise to marry you in seven days,” he begins, his voice wavering as he clutches tight to Azazel, “Will you swear to spare his life?!” 

“No, Ali,” Azazel coughs, putting a hand on Alistair’s arm to try and push him off. “No, I—I can still fight—” 

The general regards Alistair with a certain hesitance, as if he’s analyzing him for some form of deception. Alistair locks on his gaze. 

“General,” he says, “Have I ever broken a promise to you?” 

Tension fills the air like the world is drowning in it. The town is swept with silence, holding their breath to hear the verdict. General Thurston’s sharp claw remains a hair’s width away from striking them. 

A beat. A long moment, bound and strained. 

The general retracts his arm. 

“Get Azazel out of my sight,” he orders. 

Out of nowhere, Savaric and Grimald appear and seize him. Alistair helplessly reaches out to him as he’s dragged away. Gunnora and her family are wracked with sobs of horror and confusion. 

Alistair stares at nothing, his mind reeling and his emotions stunted with shock. He does nothing as he is taken by the arm and lifted to rise beside the general. The general places a firm hand on his shoulder. Alistair wipes a single tear away. 

“I am disappointed, Alistair,” General Thurston says, “But I will find it in myself to forgive you.” 

Alistair knows he will never forgive the general for this.


	11. Grimsby Island Penitentiary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry about the late chapter! I got called into work unexpectedly and completely forgot to post. I hope you like it nonetheless!

“You know, since I’m such a law abiding citizen,” Azazel begins, shuffling in his handcuffs, “I have to ask: is it legal for me to be imprisoned for a duel?” 

Officer Nigel doesn’t answer him. Standing at the helm of the raft, he watches the lapras ahead of them pull them to their destination. They sail through choppy waves and slight rain, like a storm is brewing. Nigel doesn’t even look back at him, as if he’s too disgusted to. Or, maybe, he’s too afraid to. He has to know Azazel’s probably not coming back alive. 

Azazel doesn’t need to ask where he’s going. There’s only one offshore prison around Bloomfield Island, and that’s on Grimsby Island. The whole island is a pit of nightmares: beaches of bones, blood in the water, and a constant smog hanging over the place. It’s uninhabitable. Nothing lives there. That is, except for the prison. 

Grimsby Island Penitentiary is infamous. It’s inescapable. It’s not survivable. Only the most hardened, grotesque, abhorrent criminals are cursed to that place. Which, if Azazel is being honest, doesn’t seem like fitting punishment for a uncaught thief and a guy who lost a duel. Seems a bit like overkill. Seems a bit like a temper tantrum from the general. 

Just thinking of the general immediately turns his thoughts to Alistair. That duel would’ve killed him if not for Alistair. He looks at his handcuffs, loathing that this was the best alternative. It doesn’t feel like a great option. All he can think about was that the last he saw of Alistair was him crying. And what about Gunnora? How did she handle watching her hero and her best friend try to kill each other? What about Felicia and Fulk and the kids? 

The island appears through a shroud of heavy mist. It’s a small island, small enough to see it in its entirety. Its entirety is morbid and grim. The island looks like a pile of corpses that someone decided to build a prison on. 

Even the lapras hesitates. But after a second of staring, mortified at the sight, they pick up the pace. Best to get in and out quick, like ripping off a bandage. Officer Nigel must think so, too. He grimaces at the sight of the island, barely containing a shudder. 

“Azazel,” he says, apprehension in his tone, “You’re not a good person. But you don’t deserve this.” 

They reach the dock, which Azazel swears is a mound of skulls stacked together. The fog is even heavier around the island, so thick that he almost doesn’t see the figure approaching them. When the haze parts, a vespiquen stalks toward them, a smile quirking up on her face. She’s flanked by two guards. One of them has an eyepatch. 

“Hello, officer,” she hums, putting a hand to her cheek as if charmed. “Have you brought me a gift?” 

Nigel leads Azazel off the raft and onto the dock. He nudges Azazel to her, and Azazel walks himself the rest of the way. She smiles down at him like he’s an insect she wants to dissect. He holds her gaze. 

“I’m absolutely thrilled to have a new guest,” she purrs, her eyes shining. “I think you will enjoy it here very, very much.” 

Which, Azazel takes to mean that he won’t. 

Nigel and the lapras return to the mainland, and the guards shove him up towards the prison. The woman—who he assumes is the warden—leads the way, admiring the island as if it’s blooming with natural beauty and not reeking with decay. 

The path to the prison is winding and rocky. It’s a precarious path, as if built carelessly from any loose material found on the island. Small stones and splintered bones topple down the slope with every step. The prison itself is a large building surrounded by barbed wire fences. The walls are made of brown brick and have ominous stains stretching down the sides. Only a few windows appear here and there, all of them only a sliver’s width and barred. The doors are massive and ironcast. When they open, they screech like they’re in agony. 

“Welcome to our fine penitentiary,” Warden announces, spreading her arms wide as if she’s introducing a show. Her eyes glinting wildly, she says, “Allow me to offer you the grand tour.” 

The inside is somehow darker than anything from the outside. The floor and walls are the definition of squalor, the few windows offer little to no light and are barely supplemented by sporadic candles that are nearly melted to stubs. The entire corridor is lined with cramped, rusting cells that are over packed with sweaty, noxious prisoners. Azazel looks around. 

“Wow,” he remarks, “This is horrifying.” 

“Isn’t it?” She sighs dreamily. “Shall I escort you to your cell?” 

He already knows it’s not a choice, but he’s kindly reminded by the two guards jabbing him in the back. They thrust him forward, following the warden as they trek deeper into hell. He approaches the first line of cells, sneaking a glance at the prisoners crammed inside. Their bodies are sunken and hollow, and their eyes follow him hungrily. One of them has blood around their mouth. He stops looking. 

“So,” he begins, and Warden looks back at him with a cheery smile. “This place seems awful. And unethical. Is it legal to have a prison this bad?” 

“Not one bit,” she chirps, facing the dark hall. “But what are you going to do about it?” 

He sighs. A guard shoves him in response. 

“I’ll explain how things work around here,” she says, closing her eyes as if reciting great poetry. “In the morning, you eat. You work or are worked upon until dinner. There is no lunch.” 

“Worked upon…?” 

“Tortured, dearie. Do keep up.” 

“Ah. Yes, of course.” 

“After dinner, you are worked upon until bed,” she adds, coming to a halt. Turning, she opens her eyes to gesture to a rusty, contaminated room. “This is our morgue. You might find yourself there soon.” 

Azazel peers in, finding there are no freezers for the bodies. They’re instead packed beside a small chute, inside which he can barely see the flickering light of a fire. In the pile of bodies, he sees a familiar face: the second ditto he had turned over to the general. 

Proudly leering down at him, she crows, “You won’t last a month here.” 

“You’re right,” he says, and she almost seems surprised by his response. That is, until he adds, “Because I’ll escape within the week.” 

Coyly, her smile quirks upwards into something devilish. 

“I’ll kill you before then,” she declares, as if issuing a challenge. 

They continue through the passage, walking past cells overflowing with moaning, wailing prisoners. The hall seems to get darker as they go on, no windows and less candles. The eyes of the prisoners glint ravenously. 

She stops, nodding to a packed cell. It’s full of barbarous, bestial looking creatures, their veins pulsating and their eyes bulging. Azazel offers them a casual wave in his handcuffs. One of them spits at him. 

“This is the newcomer’s cell,” she informs, pointing to the top of the cell. A sign reads, ‘Welcome! Please Enjoy Your Stay!’. “You are also given a complementary journal to write all about your fun time here.” 

“Cute,” he says, accepting the water-stained book from a guard. 

“These will be your cellmates, just for tonight. They’ve been here a while, and they’re here to make you feel wanted and appreciated.” The guards step forward, unlatching his handcuffs. He rubs his wrists, eyeing the prisoners warily. They’re looking at him like he’s fresh meat. They open the doors, ushering him in. Warden adds, “Now, do keep in mind: these gentlemen have not had a meal in a few days. They are quite hungry, and they’re looking for some fresh meat.” 

“Oh,” Azazel says, suddenly realizing why they’re looking at him like he’s food. “Neat.” 

“I’m sure you’ll all play along nice,” she coos, smirking at him as the doors are bolted shut behind him. “But just to be sure, I’ll stay here the whole time. Watching every. Little. Bit.” 

As if on cue, one of the thugs lunges for him, fangs bared. 

He dives to the side, tumbling across the dirt floor and bouncing back to his feet. Before he can retaliate, another prisoner swings at him. He ducks. Racing to the cell bars and avoiding every other thug along the way, he tries to phase through the metal. Immediately, it rejects him, throwing him back. 

“Nice try,” Warden chuckles, accepting a cup of tea from one of the guards, “But these cells are built to resist ghostly travel.”

One of the prisoners looms over him, raising their fist high to smash him into the ground. Azazel rolls out of the way just in time. The prisoner’s fist leaves a massive crater in the floor, a crater that could’ve been him. 

Leaping to his feet, he jumps and floats to the top of the cell to escape them, if just for a moment. With the spare time he has scraped together, he sizes up the room. There are five prisoners in here with him: a garchomp, a carracosta, a quilava, a krokorok, and a claydol. They all have scars and mangy skin, making their sunken eyes look all the more manic. Civility has been beaten out of them. They’re willing to stoop to any level to satisfy their pains. 

The claydol rushes toward the ceiling, straight toward him like an arrow. He spins aside, but not soon enough. His back is skimmed by the claydol, just enough to disrupt his balance and direction. He falters, low enough for the carracosta to snatch him between their scaly fins. Immobile, his arms trapped against his sides, all he can do is watch as they open their maw and prepare to snap his head off. 

In a blur, the garchomp rams into them. They drop Azazel to the ground and slam into the far wall. The garchomp, towering over him, swipes at his chest with a claw. Pressing himself flat against the floor, he narrowly dodges the strike as the garchomp raises their foot to stomp down on him. Before they do, however, the quilava leaps on their leg and digs their teeth into their flesh. The garchomp howls, slamming their leg into the wall so hard dust rains down from the ceiling. The quilava is left in the dented wall, bloodied, pulverized, and dead. 

Through all this, Azazel manages to catch a glimpse of Warden. Her cheerful expression is unwavering, sadistic. She giggles at the sight of death. He wonders if it’s better to die now than face whatever torturous plans she has for him should he survive. 

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. The garchomp is charging for him again, practically salivating at the prospect of a fresh meal. They bat aside the other prisoners like they’re feathers—that is, except for the carracosta. 

The carracosta is the only one who can rival the garchomp’s height and might. They slam into the dragon’s side, forcing them against the metal bars. Punches, slashes, and bites are thrown, drawing blood and roars of pain. Eventually, the garchomp slices at the carracosta’s neck, finishing them off and gnawing on whatever good flesh they can find. With the biggest competitor distracted, the claydol and the krokorok close in on him. 

He doesn’t wait to see what they’ll do. Instead, he leaps to his feet, plunging himself between them and leaping on the garchomp’s back. As soon as they sense someone on them, they thrash and bellow, swinging aimlessly at the air. 

The other two prisoners try to snatch Azazel from the garchomp, but they’re no match for the strength and rage of the dragon-type. They’re brutally blown away after every attempt to snag Azazel for their own. Eventually, the krokorok and the claydol stop getting up. 

Azazel has no time to see if they’re dead, because the garchomp is convulsing to try and knock him off. There’s no way he stands a chance in a fight against a barbarian like this, so he holds tight to the rough scales on their back where they can’t reach him. Spinning in circles and enraged, the garchomp suddenly shifts gears and slams their back into the metal bars of the cage. He nearly falls off from sheer pain alone, but he resists. The garchomp winds up and slams again.   
A few minutes of this, and Azazel won’t be able to hang on. Luckily, he has a feeling he won’t have to hang on much longer. Every time the garchomp strikes the bars, they dent. He just has to hold on long enough to slip by. 

The garchomp crashes, and crashes, and crashes. The world around Azazel is starting to spin. In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the warden, smiling and laughing. 

Just a minute more. 

BANG! 

Dizziness clouds his head. 

BANG! 

Just a minute more. 

It happens in an instant: the next time the garchomp bashes their back against the bars, Azazel pops out and hits the ground, safely outside the cell. He props himself up. He regains his senses. Vaguely, he hears the guards shout in surprise, he sees their feet rush to him. Before they can touch him, he whips the prison-provided journal at their faces and flees. 

Taking off down the corridor, he barely hears the warden’s order to seize him over the outraged roar of the garchomp. He can’t slip through these walls, he can’t fall into the floor, so he has no choice but to run straight and hope he can outrun the guards. 

Yeah, there’s no hope of that. One glance over his shoulder proves that they’re both faster than him and in a much better physical state. At this rate, they’ll catch him in no time. He needs something else. A distraction. 

Along the wall, he spots it: a rusty, red lever. Underneath, it’s labeled, ‘Open All Cells’. He dashes toward it. 

The guards bark commands for him to halt, picking up their pace. One of them is so close that they barely brush him with their fingertips when they try to catch him. Azazel stumbles, but does not fall. 

The switch is so close he can taste it. All he has to do is grab it, flip it. He reaches out. 

Right as his fingers dust the handle, he’s tackled to the ground. One of the guards straddles him, raising a fist and bringing it down on his face. The other guard catches up, rearing a leg back to kick him. They repeat this process. Several, several times. 

By the time the warden saunters over, he’s dripping ichor and hardly able to move. She offers him a slow, condescending clap. 

“Not bad,” she praises, mirth in her eyes at his pain. “But you’ll have to try harder than that to escape my prison. No one’s ever left here alive, and you’ll be no different.” 

He glares at her through his ichor. Or, at least he tries to. It’s hard to glare at someone when you’re seeing double. 

“Take him to solitary,” she orders the guards. They heft him up, rather unkindly. “And don’t forget to give him his journal back. That’s Grimsby Island Penitentiary hospitality, you know.” 

****

DAY 1: 

Ive never had a journal what do you do with these stupid things  
Hi journal I guess  
If Im being honest I dont love this place  
But I think Ill like pissing the warden off

****

“Food,” the guard grunts, shoving their way into his solitary chamber. It’s some ungodly hour of the morning, Azazel presumes, because the guard looks weary and baggy-eyed. They drop the food unceremoniously in front of him, leaving the ‘meal’ to spatter in all directions, much like a meal shouldn’t. “Eat up. And hurry, Warden’s got plans for ya today.” 

Azazel is reluctant to move himself from the corner, where he’s huddled up into a ball. It’s beyond freezing in this room, so cold that he was unable to sleep and ice has begun to form on the walls. He doesn’t know how; it’s summer. He eventually moves, although sluggishly, due to the guard’s insistence and threats of violence. He takes the rusty platter. 

The food—if you could call it that—is a big slop of brown. It jiggles when he moves the plate but it doesn’t come apart when he stabs it with a fork. There are strange chunks inside the gelatinous mound that look more than suspicious. And worst of all, it reeks, rancid. Azazel prods at the food a minute longer. 

“Oi, you gonna keep playin’ wit ya food? We got work ta do,” the guard gripes. 

Azazel looks up at the guard. He looks down at his food. Then, winding his arm back, he throws the platter at the guard’s face. 

Immediately upon impact, the guard begins to shriek with agony. They crumple to the ground, clutching their face like it’s melting. Maybe it is, who knows. All Azazel knows is that he’s not stupid enough to eat poisoned food. 

****

He guesses doctors really aren’t lying when they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. After a full day of being brutally tortured on an empty stomach, he’s not feeling so hot. 

He trudges into the cafeteria, where all the prisoners eat dinner. The sanitary conditions are about as deplorable as the rest of the building. He’s not even surprised anymore. But he does imagine how appalled the general would be at the sight of all this filth, with his obsession of being pristine and all. The thought makes him smile. 

A cook slaps some grub on his tray. It’s the same food as before. He inspects it, wary after what he had been offered this morning. It’s still as disgusting as before, but it lacks the same strong smell. Also, it’s been served out of a huge pot for all the prisoners. He figures the warden wouldn’t try to kill all her prisoners at once. 

He stops. He thinks. 

No, yeah. She’d definitely do that. 

When he takes a seat, he studies the people around him. Their eyes are dead and their expressions are worse. But he doesn’t care about that, he’s watching them for signs of poisoning. They seem to have no reaction, but honestly, he can’t tell if they’ve eaten anything. He looks down at his dinner. He looks at the guy in front of him, who’s also looking down at his meal. 

Picking up his food, he throws it at the prisoner in front of him.

Unsurprisingly, he gets the same reaction. They topple out of their seat, howling in pain. The rest of the room, having seen it all, suddenly shoves their plates away in horror. 

The warden drifts into the room, surveying the uneaten food with a smile on her face. Upon seeing the prisoner across from Azazel in agony, she hums, “Ah, so you were the one who figured it out. I guessed as much.” 

She waves a hand to the guards, who rush in and drag the yelling prisoner away. 

“Smart of you to be wary,” she crows, sitting on the table in front of him. Leering down, she says, “But I’m afraid that also means you haven’t eaten anything today.” 

She waves her hand again. This time, the cooks hurry out, swiping all the food away from the prisoners and replacing it with clean, unpoisoned portions. The plate in front of him is taken, but not replaced. 

“Too bad,” she pouts, tilting her head in false sympathy. “I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a very, very rough day.” 

****

DAY 2: 

Ugh she got me   
Whatever guess Ill just die haha 

****

 

She was right. Tomorrow has been a rough day. 

She’s put the prison to work. Meaningless, exhaustive work. They’re at the island’s shore with buckets, scooping up water that has fallen into crevices and hauling it back into the ocean. It’s a task given just for the sake of giving: the water will never leave the crevices, as the waves will keep pushing it back in. They’ll be shoveling water away all day and see no progress. 

The warden seems to enjoy this, immensely. She’s lounging on a long chair under an umbrella, sipping from a wine glass as she observes the work. She giggles every so often, as if amused by her own sadism. 

A frown tugs on Azazel’s face. She sure is looking comfortable. A little too comfortable. He hasn’t gotten on her nerves enough. 

He looks around at the other prisoners around him, wondering if he could start a riot. They all look dead and empty, so he figures that’s a no. Looking down at the bucket in his hands, full of blood and bones and saltwater, he ponders what he can do. He finds nothing, so he sighs and dumps the bucket into the ocean. Right then, a wave sweeps in, pouring into the crevice he’d just scooped water out of. The bones he’d removed swirl right back inside. 

He drops the bucket on the ground. He’s not doing this anymore. He hasn’t eaten in a day and he’s done nothing but be tortured and put to unnecessary work. This sucks. He’s skipping out of this little ‘prison bonding activity’. 

Leaving his bucket behind, he crawls inside the crevice. He makes sure not to touch the putrid water as he shuffles underground between rocks. It’s a tight space, but not so tight that he’s feeling cramped. He makes himself comfortable, sitting on the damp rocks. Mirroring the warden’s relaxed position from up above, he leans back and closes his eyes. 

It takes a good few minutes before anyone realizes he’s gone. When the warden discovers, she screeches with rage. 

“Find him, now!” 

He snickers to himself, listening to the sound of guards running to and fro above him. They search, desperate amidst her furious screaming. Sitting back, he knows they won’t be finding him for a long, long time. 

He picks up a small rock about the size of his hand. Tossing it in his palm, he gazes at the flat boulder wall in front of him. With his small rock, he carves into the stone: 'Azazel loves Alistair'.

He looks at it. He sits back. He sighs. 

****

DAY 3: 

Im starting to run out of time if I want to escape by the end of the week like I said I would   
Also Ali said he would marry the general at the end of this week   
I gotta get back to him and Gunn and everyone else I miss them so much   
I miss him so much   
I gotta get out of here

****

When waiting to be tortured, prisoners sit in the waiting room. He’s currently in his seat, next in line, barely listening to the sounds of the anguished shrieks from the next room over. This room is always the most silent. Everyone’s holding their breath to see what’s coming for them soon. 

Azazel leans back, tapping his fingers against his chair impatiently. He glances over to the guy behind him in line. An aggron. The guy is stony faced, unperturbed by the sounds of agony that haunt the room. He stares at the far wall as if it’s a thousand yards away, and he doesn’t blink. Scars and scrapes mar his body. When he notices Azazel sizing him up, he rasps, “What are you in for?” 

Azazel sighs. “If I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure. I slept with the general’s fiancé and now I’m here.” 

The aggron nods grimly. “If you anger the rich, they condemn you like they’re a god.” 

Azazel blinks at him a moment. That’s the most profound thing he’s heard anyone in this hellhole say. 

“I should be dead,” he remarks, fiddling with the handcuff binding him to his seat. “The general challenged me to a duel to the death, but his fiancé saved me.” 

“And how, exactly, did you meet his fiancé?” 

“Well,” he begins, unsure of where to start. “Someone else wanted me dead, still don’t know who. So I went to the general for protection, and I started living in his house. One thing led to another, I guess.” 

“You’re paying a hefty price for one fling.” 

“It wasn’t a fling,” he states, sitting a little straighter. “Alistair—his fiancé—he’s more than that. And that’s coming from me, who’s never committed to anything or anyone… ever. He’s a good person. A smart person, even if he’s kinda a dumbass, but he tries his best to learn.” 

Azazel finds himself getting swept up in his own narrative. “I didn’t understand him when we first met. I thought he was just some pompous, arrogant brat, and that’s how I treated him. But that’s not who he is. He’s confused about the world and he’s all alone in it. And as I got to know him, I thought… maybe, I could be his. I could help him understand how things work and I could be his companion. And that if he were mine, he’d never be lonely again.” 

The aggron nods sagely, like a wise old monk. “That, my boy, is true love.” 

Azazel shrugs, glancing down at his feet. Looking back to the aggron, he asks, “So? What are you in for?” 

Gravely, the man stares at the far wall with hardened eyes. “Tax evasion.” 

****

DAY 4: 

Tomorrow I do it  
Screw it Im escaping even if it kills me  
Im coming Ali just hang on 

****

Azazel pokes and prods at his slop of food. It’s not poisoned this time, he’s pretty sure of that, but that doesn’t make it any more appetizing. Food isn’t really on his mind, anyway. Right now, he’s carefully watching the cafeteria door from the corner of his vision. 

At meal times, two guards stand at the door to keep everyone in. The rest of the guards mill about the room, eyeing everyone suspiciously and tormenting random prisoners for the hell of it, like a lethal game of duck-duck-goose. That’s why no one dares to slip out of their seats and make a run for the door, because they’re too afraid of the sadistic guards that prowl. But if Azazel could cause a distraction, even a short one, he could buy himself enough time to race to the door, outsmart the two guards, and escape into the hall. Since most of the guards are in the cafeteria with him, there won’t be many obstacles between him and freedom. And those in his way can easily be dealt with by pulling the red lever that releases any prisoners that are still in their cells. 

So, the plan: cause a distraction, run, pull the lever, escape. Not an easy feat, but Azazel’s managed to slip his way out of worse. 

He glances around the room, surveying what’s at his disposal. The chairs and tables are bolted to the ground, so they’re of no use. Pots and pans from the kitchen are too far away to swipe and use quickly. All he really has is the meal in front of him and his own dull, rusty fork. Neither are very useful. They’re more disgusting than anything. Still, the guy across from him shovels it down like he can’t get enough. Azazel grimaces. But, it reminds him of another asset he has: the other prisoners. 

They all have to hate this place as much as him, right? If not, more. Whenever the warden strolls by, they shrink in fear. But when she passes, they glower at her murderously. He’s willing to bet that they’d have no qualms with killing her. Most of them are probably in here for that very crime. If he could incite some sort of riot, that would be the perfect distraction to flee. 

The only problem is that these prisoners have been here so long, they’ve lost their will to fight. They glare and spit her name, but they don’t dare raise a hand against her. Getting this lot to riot will be difficult. He’s gotta find someone he can spur into action. Someone he can get under the skin of, someone he can ignite. Someone he knows enough about to push their buttons. But who? 

His eyes land on the perfect victim. Of course: the tax evasion guy. Azazel pushes out of his seat, and the guy across from him snatches his food and downs it. Azazel rolls his eyes and makes his way to the aggron. 

The aggron sees him coming, sizing him up with one good eye. His other eye, milky white and scarred, seems to bore into him. Azazel saunters casually to the chair across from his, hopping in. 

“Never caught your name,” he remarks, “On account of being tortured and all.” 

“Godwin,” the aggron responds, his voice curt and solemn. His eyes burn like an ancient dragon, full of wisdom and fury. “But now that you know my name, you must tread lightly. I am no ordinary man; I have many enemies. My story begins when I was a young boy, and I saved my village from—” 

“Yeah, that’s cool,” he interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Listen: don’t you think it’s weird that the two of us got sent here? To this prison, of all places? Someone who didn’t pay taxes and someone who slept with a rich guy’s fiancé don’t deserve to be in the worst prison imaginable.” 

Godwin considers his words. Eventually, he says, “I do suppose it’s strange. We aren’t the worst of the batch.” 

“Yeah, I mean, we never murdered anyone.” Azazel eyes Godwin suspiciously. “...Did you murder someone?” 

Godwin’s stare remains expressionless and stony. 

“Okay, so we maybe never murdered anyone,” Azazel corrects. “Point is, this is bullshit. Our lives are going to be wasted away in this shithole when we deserve a halfway decent prison to waste our lives away in. Right?” 

Godwin blinks, as if he’s seeing for the first time. “You’re right.” 

“Like a prison with good food.” 

“Right.” 

“Or a prison under ethical ownership.” 

“Right.” 

“Or a prison with… I don’t know man. What do you want?” 

“Windows,” Godwin seethes. 

“Hell yeah,” Azazel agrees, nodding like he’s really pissed off about having no windows. “We deserve some goddamn windows.” 

Godwin’s eyes are dark and dangerous, like a storm is brewing inside him. “I wanna see the flowers outside and shit.” 

“Hell yeah,” Azazel repeats, feeding into Godwin’s growing anger. “What did we ever do to deserve no windows? Huh? Do we really deserve to never see the outside world again?” 

“No,” Godwin growls. 

“Do we?” 

“No!” he roars, slamming his fists on the table. Everyone’s plates vibrate with his fury. “No, we don’t!” 

At this point, they’ve caught the attention of a group of guards. The guards share a look, then stalk over to them. Godwin is breathing heavily, his eyes flaring, fully consumed with outrage. Azazel leans back and looks away, whistling. 

One of the guards puts a hand on Godwin to compel his anger away. It has the opposite effect. Instead of threatening him into grudging silence, he sparks a fire in him. With a mighty battle cry, Godwin whirls around and slugs the guard in the face. The guard soars through the air, catapulting into a pot of boiling food. 

And that’s all it takes. 

Immediately, the attention of the room is on Godwin. Godwin stomps to his feet, batting the other guards away from him like feathers. Swinging his meaty tail around and denting walls, Godwin bellows with rage and slams a guard’s head into the table. The room erupts into chaos, other prisoners provoked into action. Prisoners hurl food and people alike, agitating the room, kindling the revolt. The remaining guards are torn between charging Godwin to subdue him and attempting to corral the rest of the convicts. 

Azazel leaps to his feet, darting between the mass of rioters unnoticed. Prisoners and guards wrestle on all sides of him; they’re beating each other until they’re bloody and mangled. There’s already someone on the floor, motionless, their neck twisted unnaturally. This riot was more successful than he imagined it would be.   
Through the raging crowd, he catches a glimpse of the door. It’s no longer guarded. The guards that had been standing attention must have joined the fray. A grin stretches on Azazel’s face as he shoves his way toward the exit. This is almost too easy. 

His burst of confidence, naturally, is met with an equal and opposite reaction. The moment he breaks free of the crowd, he’s spotted by the last person he ever wanted to see. 

“Get him!” Warden screams, pointing a sharp claw at him. 

Azazel takes off from the cafeteria, racing down the corridor. A guard stands in his way, but he shoves past them, knocking them to the the floor. He can’t help the smile on his face. The guards chasing him are way too far behind to even dream of capturing him. There’s no one else in his way. All he has to do is race to that red lever, pull it down, and release all the prisoners. The whole prison will plummet further into chaos, and he’ll be able to slip away as easy as anything. 

He turns the corner sharply, nearly skidding into the wall. Again, no one’s ahead of him. This really is too easy. He hears the warden screech with rage, and he laughs. 

One more corner to turn. One more corner, and the handle is right there. After the handle, there’s only a few more steps until he reaches the front door. He’ll push his way through, bask in the open air full of decay, and dash to the docks. From there, he’s not quite sure what he’ll do. If it’s not raining, he’ll be able to float across the water, no problem. If it is, he’ll swim the whole way back, so help him God. 

Energy courses through him. He’s more invigorated than he’s been all week. In mere hours, he’ll be home. He’ll see Gunnora and Fulk and Felicia and the kids. Gunnora will probably punch him, Fulk will give him a talking to, and Felicia will smother him. He can’t wait. 

And Alistair: what will it be like to see him again? To hold him again, to kiss him again? Azazel already knows what he’s gonna do as soon as he finds him. He’s gonna scoop him up and smooch him until they’re both sick of it. He’ll find a way to break him out of that stupid contract while still preserving Alistair’s crazy morals. They’ll run away and never have to worry about being caught again. He imagines all these things and more, and it’s such a wonderful feeling that he understands why Alistair likes all those fairy tale books. 

He turns the corner. The lever is in his sights. But something else is, too, right in the corner of his eye. 

Spinning around, he turns to defend against the person lurking in his peripheral vision. But he reacts to late. A strong, lethally sharp wing slams into his chest, blasting him back into the wall. Slamming into the bricks, he falls to the floor, his vision blurred and disoriented. 

His attacker stalks toward him like they have all the time in the world. He tries, desperately, to get back up, but his body trembles and his vision dances with black spots. He slumps back to the floor. 

In his slowly diminishing sights, he catches a glimpse of the perpetrator's feet. The guards and the warden rush into the hall, faltering with reverence when they see who brought Azazel to a stop. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” General Thurston seethes, glaring down at Azazel with eyes burning like a volcano. 

****

DAY 5: 

Shit


	12. A Bitter Memory, Revisited

After the general showed up and kicked his ass, he was promptly thrown in solitary. Although, he wasn’t alone. The warden and the general joined him, and not to keep him company. Mostly to keep each other company as they took turns torturing him. 

He’s strapped to a wooden table, bound at the wrists, ankles, and waist. The table is already stained with someone else’s blood, or perhaps several other someone elses, and now it’s being soaked with his ichor. It’s pretty uncomfortable, lying in a pool of your own life fluids. 

Cuts and slices line his limbs, black ichor seeping out of each wound. A sharp, red hot pole has been driven through his shoulder and taken out countless times. He’s been stuck with needles and glass and nails. Pain is a constant. Anytime that he’s not in excuritating misery, he knows that’s because they’re plotting something dreadful that will nearly make him pass out. And he has. A few times, now.   
It’s not his favorite thing. 

Through his discomfort, he croaks, “Look, Thurston. Can I call you Thurston?” 

The general gives him a sharp look in response. 

“Okay, so that’s a no,” he grunts, trying to readjust himself into a less straining position. “Listen, pal: I’m sorry I slept with Alistair. Okay? If it were up to me, he wouldn’t even have been engaged to you and I would’ve just slept with some unengaged guy. Does that make you feel better?” 

The general does not give him a response. Instead, he turns back to the warden, resuming their hushed conversation in the corner. 

Azazel sighs, dropping his head back on the board. He stares at the moldy ceiling. He picks his head back up. 

“Hey, I thought you were all about honor and following the law,” he says, and the general turns to glare at him, exasperated. “Pretty sure imprisoning and torturing me for having an affair is both overkill and illegal.” 

“The offense you have borne me is greater than you will ever know,” General Thurston states, his voice sharp and callous. “You deserve every last stroke.” 

“No, I don’t, and we both know that,” he retorts. “I’m only here because you’re vindictive and needlessly violent.” 

The general scowls at him. He turns back to the warden. 

But Azazel’s not done with him. “Have you hurt him?” He demands. The general faces him. 

“Who?” He asks, eyes narrowed. 

“Don’t act like you don't know,” he says. The general steps toward him. Staring up at him without hesitation, he says, “Have you hurt Alistair since the duel?” 

“That is none of your concern,” the general states, cold. “Matters between myself and my fiancé are not for you to know.” 

Azazel shudders viscerally at the word ‘fiancé’ when it leaves the general’s mouth. “Don’t you dare call him that, you don’t get to prey on a thirteen year old and then call him your—!” 

“Silence!” The general roars, slamming a fist down on the table. The vibrations exacerbate Azazel’s wounds and make him hiss in pain. Furious, the general proclaims, “You have no right to condemn me, you honorless thief!” 

“Call me whatever you want,” Azazel spits, “And do whatever you want to me. It’ll never change the fact that Alistair will never love you.” 

Flaring with rage, the general whips around, snatches up the hot iron rod, and thrusts it through Azazel’s leg. 

He swears people can hear him scream all the way in Skystead. 

****

It’s early morning, six days since Azazel’s imprisonment. Alistair sits in the general’s bedroom, gazing out the balcony doors. From here, he can see the ocean. From here, he can almost see Grimsby Island, where Azazel is being detained. This is how he has spent these last wretched days: locked away in the bedroom, gazing longfully across the sea. 

He holds the love poems he wrote, all inspired by Azazel. When he had written them, his heart had been so full yet so light. He could not recall a time when he was happier. Now, he’s more distraught than he’s ever been. His own written words of bliss have led to this dismal fate. Had he not written the poem, they would not have been discovered. Azazel would not be in prison, and Alistair would not be wed tomorrow. He would not be locked inside, lamenting his downfall. 

General Thurston has locked him in their bedroom until he deems that he has learned his lesson. Alistair is no fool, however. He knows the general is locking him up to keep him away from the prison. He knows the general spent all of yesterday at Grimsby Island. He can only suspect that Azazel is being treated poorly. 

The general is home now, in the room with him. He is preparing to leave on another long day of errands, which Alistair interprets as another visit to the prison. Although, he has not yet left due to a misplaced journal. 

“Where could that thing have disappeared off to?” General Thurston murmurs, sorting through his drawers. Distressed and perplexed, he says, “I haven’t been able to find it in weeks.” 

“Perhaps it will be a good lesson to you.” Alistair’s voice is clipped. He does not look at the general as he speaks. “You must break out of that insufferable routine and enjoy the weather instead of recording it.” 

The general stops searching. These past few days, Alistair has been more bold in is language with the general. It seems to catch him off balance. 

Alistair hears the drawer shut. He hears the general walk over to him, slowly. He does not turn to face him, not even when a pair of hands fall on his shoulders. 

“My pet,” General Thurston begins. His voice is low. Menacing. He squeezes his shoulders, hard. “I do not think I am the one who has a lesson to learn.” 

“Only fools think they have no more to learn,” Alistair responds coolly. He keeps his gaze locked on the ocean. “I do not think you a fool, but it appears you do.” 

Silence suffocates them. Long, tense, sharp silence. The general keeps his firm grip on his shoulders. He keeps it there a long, long while, tightening his grip ever slightly. His claws begin to dig into Alistair’s skin. 

He lets go, walking away from Alistair. Alistair closes his eyes, fighting the impulse to shudder. 

“I will be back,” the general says, opening the door, “By evening. I will meet you for dinner. Be on your best behavior for Savaric and Grimald.” 

Said as if he’s a petulant child. “Of course.” 

He hears the door begin to shut as the general leaves. It latches, locking him alone in the room once more. He waits until he can no longer hear the general’s footsteps. He waits until he can see the general exit the estate. He waits until the general has disappeared into town. Then, he rises. 

Setting aside his poetry, he hurries out onto the balcony. Sneaking a glance at the gardens below, he can see Savaric and Grimald strolling through. He cannot see Pepin anywhere. He presumes he must still be inside, attending to some housekeeping matter. Watching Savaric and Grimald carefully, he eyes them until they disappear from view further in the gardens. 

He puts his hands on the railing. He takes a deep breath. 

Never, without prompting from Azazel or Gunnora, has he ever dared to break an ordinance set upon him. Just the thought makes him a little faint. But time is of the essence, and he is confronted by a dire situation. He is certain the general has been seeing Azazel in prison. Thus, he is certain Azazel is being treated terribly. For the sake of his love, he must cast away all hesitance. He must escape the confines of the estate, go to the prison, and speak to the warden to request or—heaven forbid—bribe them into treating Azazel ethically. 

He trembles slightly at the prospect of it all but does not wait around long enough to grow too nervous to act. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thrusts himself off the balcony. 

Hovering to the gardens, he slowly opens his eyes. The world is not imploding around him. There are no wails or cries of misery. He has broken “only one little rule”, as Azazel would say, and no harm done. He still feels quite shaken. 

Once in the gardens, he hurries toward the street. Before turning any corners in the maze, he pokes his head out to peer both ways. Somewhere, Savaric and Grimald lurk in these winding paths. Should he accidentally cross paths with them, his escape is doomed. Treading with care is a must. 

He arrives upon the fountain, unable to shake the feeling of Azazel that lingers in the air. It is a comforting yet remorseful feeling that settles over him. He adores the memories they have shared together in this spot, but he fears those memories will fade with time. He wishes to hold onto them forever, to create new memories with him, but that is entirely impossible if the status quo does not change. Is it possible for Alistair to have Azazel’s sentence reduced or nulled? Unlikely. But he will never know if he does not try. 

Hurrying past the fountain, he nearly forgets to check the approaching pathway for the colonels. Coming to a sudden halt before barging onto the path, he cautiously peeks out. No one. He takes a breath of relief. 

“Alistair,” a voice behind him says. He jumps, spinning around. Savaric and Grimald are behind him, advancing on him to seize him. “What are you doing outside of the bedroom?” 

He does not offer them a response. Instead, he turns and bolts. 

“Get him!” One of the colonels shouts. 

Racing through the maze he has memorized, he hopes to take several convoluted twists and turns to throw them off. However, there aren’t many places he can flee without cornering himself. He can only go to the end of the maze, where he will be let out on the estate lawn that overlooks the street. That is, if he is not caught before then. 

Savaric and Grimald are gaining on him. He may be fast, but he lacks the stamina and training they have. As things stand now, they will catch him, subdue him, and force him back to the room with greater security. He will lose his only chance to see Azazel before the wedding. Something must change—but what? What can he do in such a hopeless situation but keep running? He is not as quick-thinking as Azazel or as strong as Gunnora. 

He escapes the garden, racing out onto the lawn. He flies past Pepin, who is tending to the gardens. Pepin only gives him a bewildered glance, his eyes trained on him even as he walks to the next set of flowers. Not paying attention to the path in front of him, Pepin winds up crashing into Savaric and Grimald, sending them all sprawling in the grass. 

Alistair dashes to the street, darting through town and thanking Pepin a thousand times over in his head. He leaves Savaric and Grimald far behind, hardly able to hear their shouts over the bustle of town. Townsfolk rush about almost as frantically as he does. The wedding preparations are in full swing, turning the town into a fairy tale landscape. Alistair has half the mind to tear those banners of love down and burn them, but he hasn’t the time. He hastens to the inn. 

When he arrives inside, slamming the door behind him, all eyes turn to him. Unlike before, none of his wedding guests leap up to smother him in inquiries of the marriage. Instead, they remain seated, fixing him with a foul gaze that screams one word: 

'Whore.'

He steadily ignores them, hurrying back to the employee’s room where he hopes to find dear Gunnora. Upon entering the room, he sees all of Gunnora’s family in the room, wearing solemn expressions. They appear to be mourning the fate of Azazel, and Gunnora is not currently with them. Alistair prepares to bow apologetically and excuse himself in search of Gunnora, but one of the elder sons looks up at him with bitter eyes and spits, “Why do rich people have to take everything?” 

Alistair does not know whether that is an attack on himself or the general. Apparently, it is upon him, because a familiar voice behind him says, “Adney, leave him alone. It’s not his fault.” 

Gunnora enters the room behind him, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. He is quite appreciative of her gesture, albeit, a tad uncomfortable. He has never had a friend hold him and he does not quite know how to position himself. He acquiesces to remaining very, very still. 

“You okay, buddy?” She asks him, her eyes full of concern. 

“I must confess, I am quite downhearted. Um, buddy,” he replies, shifting slightly. “But that is not important. I have come here to humbly request your help.” 

“Help?” Gunnora repeats, glancing to her family and back. “With what?” 

“I must travel to the prison,” he states, noting that the family seems to sit straighter at his declaration, “And see Azazel. His detainment is unlawful and I fear he is being treated subpar. If I go, I can work with the warden to see his sentence or treatment be altered.” 

“Whatever we can do, we’re on board,” Fulk responds, standing. He is full of determination, as is the rest of his family. “We want to help Azazel.” 

Alistair nods, their determination filling him with confidence. They will save Azazel. And they’ll do it tonight. 

They sit down and get to work immediately. Since he had entered the inn, it had begun to rain. Therefore, he cannot simply float across the water to arrive at the island, as the rainwater will weigh him down and submerge him. They must find a boat for him to traverse across; however, they are limited on choices. The only boats around the docks belong to the military, law enforcement, or to travel agencies. All three of those organizations will immediately recognize Alistair as the general’s fiancé and refuse to give him passage without the general’s permission. 

Alistair had suggested that they could simply make a boat, and he was met largely with blank stares. Gunnora explained to him that boats are not a simple contraption to construct, and that it could take them weeks to create a functioning model. Obviously, they are not blessed with that kind of time. However, Fulk mentions that they could build a raft within a few hours, but it will be of poor quality and unsafe for travel in the stormy sea. 

“Build it,” Alistair proclaims, rising. “No matter how haphazard it is, I will ride it.” 

They sneak through the backdoor to begin the process of building outside. The rain has increased significantly, straining their efforts. All of Gunnora’s family, other than Felicia who is running the inn, aid in the project. If the children are working, Alistair must as well. He requests that Gunnora teach him to use a hammer and nail, and he learns. He manages to secure a board to the raft without help. 

When they are nearly finished with the task, the sun has dipped below the horizon. The rain has not let up. Despite the loud noises of thunder, they can hear a commotion that arises from the inn. Everyone halts in their work, frozen and listening carefully. The sound of loud footsteps charge toward the backdoor. Alistair braces himself for the general or the colonels to burst through and discover them. Instead, Felicia arrives. 

“Fulk!” She cries, eyes wide. “The colonels are here; they’re looking for Alistair! What do we do?” 

Before anyone can even suggest a solution, Savaric and Grimald shove their way past Felicia. Their eyes dart from the family to the raft to Alistair, where they stay. Everyone is tense. Silent. After a long moment, Gunnora stands. 

“I’ll handle them,” she states, her gaze dark. She stalks toward them. Savaric and Grimald follow suit. 

“Step aside, cadet,” Savaric orders. “That’s an order from your superior officers.” 

She stands in their path, immovable like a rock. “No,” she declares. 

They stand firm, staring her down. 

“In the name of the general,” Grimald commands, “Step aside.” 

Gunnora pauses. A flicker of emotion runs through her eyes. But then, she steels herself, tilting her chin up to look down on them. 

“No,” she repeats, stronger than the first time. “I won’t move for him.” 

“Very well,” they say, advancing on her with violent intent. Before they can strike, she beats them to the punch, swinging a powerful kick at Savaric’s face. He’s thrown to the side, but does not fall. In a flash of lightning, a brawl breaks out. 

Fulk leaps to his feet, charging into the fight to aid his daughter. Felicia runs to the other children, grabbing a hold of the raft and shouting over the storm, “How close is it to being done?!” 

“We’re close!” The eldest son, Adney, yells back. “But not close enough!” 

“I will depart now!” Alistair announces, taking a hold of the raft. “Please assist me in taking this to the water!” 

“It’s not ready, it’ll fall apart in those waves!” 

“But it will float,” Alistair states, lifting. “That is all I need!” 

They drag the raft to the water’s edge, fighting through ferocious winds and torrential rains to arrive at the rocky beach. The ocean surges and crashes against the rocks as if trying to bowl them over. Across the water, through the mist of the storm, Alistair can barely see the silhouette of Grimsby Island. 

Thunder roars overhead, making them jump and cry with fright. Lightning crashes in venous bolts, streaking the pitch black sky with mighty cracks of electricity. The storm razes the land so savagely the world looks war-torn. 

With a mighty heave, they toss the raft into the murky, choppy waters. Alistair does not hesitate to climb aboard. One of the children hands him a wooden plank to serve as his oar. Before he pushes off, Felicia cries, “Be safe!” 

He nods, taking the oar and shoving away from the rocky land. 

The sea sweeps him out into its ravaging waves faster than he expected. The waves climb and reach towering heights, so high he fears he may flip over. He always ends up on the other side, however, soaked but still afloat. From where he sits in the ocean, he can no longer clearly see Bloomfield Island. Grimsby Island also is obscure, but it is coming into clearer view. 

Lightning ravages the sky, one long bolt splitting it in two. Wrathful thunder follows an instant later. A massive wave rushes over his raft as rain batters the raging sea. Grasping the oar tightly, Alistair plunges it into the water and draws it back with great strain. The forces of the ocean fight vigorously against his rowing motions, aiming to drag him back to land and wreck him. He has found himself in a violent battle against Mother Nature, a battle he surely will not win. If he is to survive, he must escape the clutches of the storm in swift fashion. The longer he is subject to this bombardment, the higher his chances of drowning. 

Waves crash around him as if he is being targeted by the waters. His raft, makeshift and half-done, cannot handle this immense pressure. It practically trembles under every impact. He worries it will soon splinter, abandoning him to the cruel mercy of the ocean. 

Lightning and thunder and rain strike all around him. His raft is an inch below the surface, waterlogged and unable to float above the currents. It sinks deeper with every passing moment. Through the thick, heavy darkness ahead, he can barely see the silhouette of the prison. Somehow, it seems farther away than before. That’s when he realizes, horrified, that it is. 

His raft is being tugged away from the prison as the water around him pulls backward. Turning, he lands his sights upon a monstrous, towering wave that steadily grows above him. The crest of the wave is caving. It’s preparing to surge down and plunge him beneath. 

Shoving his oar into the water, he feverishly attempts to escape the wave that hangs over him. His efforts are fruitless. The wave builds so large that it blots out the moonlight. Then, after a clash of lightning, the wave roars down toward him. 

He’s struck. It feels as though he has been crushed beneath a boulder and then tumbled through a whirlpool. Dark water surrounds him on all sides, so dark that he cannot tell up from down nor left from right. He is so disoriented that he cannot even find his raft to grab a hold of as it likely floats back to the surface. 

He is losing air. He is losing focus, losing vision, losing consciousness. Everything around him is dark and endless and there is no one coming to save him. He will die here if something does not change, and Azazel will suffer in prison for the rest of his existence. 

Luckily, something does change. In the corner of his eye, he sees a burst of light. It was sudden and brief, but more than enough for him to tell that it was lightning. Where it originated—that must be the surface. He strives toward it. 

The light flashes again, but it seems so far away. His body is burning to return to air; his mind is sinking into panic at the thought of this being his last minutes. He shoves such thoughts aside. He cannot fail here. This disaster in Skystead has evolved into a catastrophe, and he is to blame. He promised the people he would save Azazel, and he cannot let them down. 

Another strike of lightning, closer than last time. It shines again, and again, as if trying to draw him in. He reaches out as if to grab it. Then, in the murkiness of the waters, he sees something move, something slick and long and snake-like. Something right in front of him. 

He recoils to escape. Instantaneously, the dark ocean burns with light. 

The light was not lightning, but it was electricity. Slithering all around him is a herd of eelektrik, baring their fangs and hissing at him as their bodies crackle with sparks. They lured him here; who knows how far he is from the surface now. He has little time to dwell on that, as one of the eelektrik lunges at him. 

It opens its maw wide to dig it’s suction cup mouth into his flesh. Before it latches onto him, he telekinetically bats it away. It hurls into a group of three others, tangling and sliding together, but he does not enjoy his small victory. Behind him, one of them hooks onto his shoulder, black ichor spilling into the water. It drags him down. Hungrily, the other eelektrik give chase, hoping to gnaw off a bite for themselves. 

Is this how he dies? Dragged to the bottom of the ocean floor and feasted upon by brutish creatures? The general told him tales of cannibalistic groups that wandered the wilds, much like these. He always dreaded hearing news of another death at their hands. Will that be him, just another tragedy of a depraved hunger? He will be dragged so far down that no one will ever find his remains, he will never be buried beside his mother. 

Wait. Down. If they are dragging him to the bottom, that means the opposite direction is the surface. 

His mind reorients itself, newly aware of his directional surroundings, and his eyes pick up the slightest light glowing in front of him. With newfound strength, he shoves the creature off him, tossing it into the crowd of others, and fighting to return to the surface. The eelektrik give chase. 

They are faster than him, so he must find a way to bide himself time. He makes do with his mental abilities, tossing one of them into the fray for the rest to crash into. The water around him grows lighter, lighter, yet his vision is going dark. He is running out of time. 

One of the eelektrik nips the billowing portion of his body, tearing off a small piece. His ichor plumes into the sea, and some of the creatures grow distracted by it. Still, he is relentlessly pursued. He utilizes his mind to slow them down. 

He can see lightning strike above him. He can see the moon. But his movements are growing sluggish. He is nearly there, but he must persevere a moment longer.   
The corner of his eye catches sight of something. Something floating on the surface: the raft. It is broken in two, splintered on the edges, but it still floats. He redirects himself toward it. 

The eelektrik are gaining on him. He lacks the energy to activate his telekinetic abilities. If he does not reach the raft soon, he will be left defenseless to their craving for flesh. 

The raft is an arm’s length away. So is the nearest eelektrik. He reaches out just as they do.

His hand snags the raft and he thrusts himself to the surface. Gasping for air, he drags himself on board just as the closest creature lunges out of the sea, snapping at him. They topple onto the raft, flopping and flailing uselessly in the air. Still, they writhe in an attempt to bite him. Still coughing and reeling from the chase, Alistair can only break off a loose board and whack the cannibal on the head.

It takes a few attempts, but inevitably, the creature’s eyes roll into the back of their head and they slip into unconsciousness. Alistair clutches tight to his plank, bracing himself for another eelektrik to slither on board. None of them do. Instead, they slink around the splintering raft, waiting for him to fall back in.   
Alistair drops the board and places both hands on the unconscious creature, straining greatly to try and shove them overboard. It takes copious amounts of effort, but he eventually manages it. The others do not give their sinking associate a second glance. All their eyes are trained, hungrily, on him. Alistair snatches his board back, beating one of them away that gets too close. 

From behind him, a massive wave snatches the balance of his raft from beneath him. He topples into the ocean, plummeting downward as the wave smashes back into the sea. Panic surges through him as the creatures dart toward him. His makeshift raft is all around him, in pieces. Before they are upon him, he grabs ahold of the largest chunk, floating to the surface along with it. 

He coughs when he reaches air, swiping the stinging salt from his eyes. The eelektrik screech in protest at his second escape. Thunder and lightning crash in the sky above him. Grimsby Island is still a dark, blurry image on the distant horizon. 

He looks down. The remains of his raft are already falling apart. 

He is out of time. 

****

“You know, I used to think the worst day of my life was this one time when I was a kid and I got really sick and couldn’t eat candy for like, a month without throwing up,” Azazel drones, staring at the ceiling with tired eyes. He grimaces when the aches and pains in his body suddenly decide to makes themselves known again. “But I’m starting to think this might take the cake.” 

“Glad I could be of service,” the general says, wiping his ichor off a sharp metal rod. 

“Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?” Azazel asks, picking his head up as much as he can without passing out from pain. “That’s growth. You should be proud.” 

If the general had been making a joke, he doesn’t seem to be in a joking mood now. He simply shakes his head disdainfully at Azazel and turns back to the warden, sharing hushed words with her. 

Azazel sighs, dropping his head back onto the table. His vision blurs, and he shakes his head to try and clear it up again, but it stays just as fuzzy. As this day goes on, it’s getting harder for him to see. It’s getting harder for him to do everything, if he’s being honest. The torture the warden had been putting him under was nothing compared to what the general’s been doing. The warden almost seems jealous. 

General Thurston picks up another metal rod, a sharper one, and Azazel groans. “Why won’t you just kill me already?” 

“I made a promise to my little pet,” the general reminds, and Azazel shudders, “Not to kill you. But, if you happen to pass away from complications during your prison stay, then that would just be a… fortunate coincidence.” 

The general raises the rod, examining it, as if pondering over where to stab it next. Warden leans in, excited to see some more grisly action. Azazel justs sighs, lolling his head to the side and waiting for them to get it over with. 

Before the general can decide where to impale him, the sound of hurried footsteps distracts them. A guard bursts in, breathless. 

“Madame Warden,” they say, then salute the general. “The general’s guest is here.” 

A beat. 

The general and the warden glance at each other. The warden looks back to the guard. 

“What guest?” She demands. “The general has been with me all day and has made no mention of a companion.”

“I have sent for no one,” the general confirms, his eyes narrowed and dark.

“And yet, here I am.” 

Azazel looks up and falls in love all over again. 

Alistair stalks into the room, staring the stunned warden and general down with cool indifference. He’s soaking wet. He’s composed and confident and super sexy. Azazel’s spent so much time looking at a moldy ceiling that he forgot what it’s like to have some eye candy. 

“Wow,” Azazel says, and everyone turns to him. “You’re a badass, doll.” 

The moment Alistair sees him, his collected expression becomes mortified. He races over to the table Azazel is strapped to, throwing his arms around him. Azazel winces at the stinging sensation his embrace comes with, but he doesn’t call him off. Instead, he leans his head against Alistair, closing his eyes. 

It’s like a switch was flipped. The moment his eyes shut while he’s in Ali’s arms, the whole world disappears. It’s as if there’s a thick layer of glass between him and reality, like his head is in a fishbowl. He can only hear distorted sounds of what’s happening around him. He can barely hear the words whispered to him by Alistair, all very comforting and sweet he assumes, as his mind focuses on the gentle way Alistair strokes his head.

It’s the first soft thing he’s felt all week. He’s taking a moment to cherish it. 

Of course, it’s doesn’t last long. Like being forced out of a pleasant dream, Alistair is abruptly ripped away from him. 

Azazel’s eyes open without wanting to. In his foggy vision, he can see the general’s hands on Alistair, trying to tear him away from the table. Alistair shouts at him, pushes his hands away, and holds on tight. 

Furiously, the general grabs him. With a vicious tug, he yanks him away from Azazel. Alistair cries, digging a hand in the table to keep in place. With his other hand, he grips Azazel tight. Azazel’s ichor spills on the ground. Alistair grips him tight. The general pulls harder. 

He’s trying to rip them apart. Azazel would hold Alistair with all his strength if he could. But all he can do is weakly twist in his restraints as he watches the general wrench Alistair away. 

“Please,” Alistair whispers. He’s not talking to him. He’s turned himself around, bearing through the pain, just to face the general. “Please. He doesn’t deserve this, he’s just a lover.” 

He doesn’t deserve this, his mother had said, he’s just a boy. 

His mother had screamed for him. 

His mother had been ripped away from him. 

The man in his memories who he can’t remember, the man whose face is full of shadows, the man surrounded by fire and blood: he begins to emerge. As if he is walking down a long, dark corridor in Azazel’s mind, he slowly, slowly, slowly makes himself known. One shadow disappears from his face at a time. By the time the last shadow falls, Azazel wonders how he could’ve possibly forgotten that horrid face. 

The man who killed his people. 

The man who killed his father. 

The man who killed his mother. 

“It was you,” he states, his voice and mind clearer than they’ve been all week. All chaos and conflict in the room ceases, silenced by his sudden declaration. He feels himself burn from the revelation, burn from the recollection, burn from it all. Struggling against his bindings as if he might rip the general to pieces, he hisses, “It was you.” 

The men he feared in his memories, the ‘scary men’: they weren’t monsters. They weren’t boogeymen. They were soldiers. The general led them. 

“It was all a cover-up,” he realizes, anguish and rage and a mix of confusing things swelling inside him. “Beggar’s Hole Massacre; it was a military campaign. You killed everyone. You killed everyone.” 

Tension roils in the air. 

“You sent people to kill me,” Azazel adds, his tone dripping with venom, “Because I was the last survivor. You didn’t want anyone to know about all the state-sponsored slaughtering you did. This whole thing, this whole mess: it was all you.” 

The room is so silent a pin could be heard dropping a mile away. Alistair is transfixed with horror, his eyes darting from Azazel to the general. His expression grows more and more petrified with every second that the general doesn’t speak up to deny the claims. General Thurston stares Azazel down with a grim, unrelenting gaze. 

Firmly, the general tears Alistair away from the table. Alistair shouts in protest, fighting to stay by his side, but is yanked aside by the warden. She holds him in place, just out of the corner of Azazel’s vision. The general takes Alistair’s spot by Azazel’s side. 

“It’s a shame you finally wisened up,” General Thurston rumbles, his voice dark and dangerous. Reaching a hand up towards Azazel’s face, he says, “I really wasn’t going to break my promise to Alistair.” 

Taking a hold of the zipper at Azazel’s mouth, the general rips it open. Azazel’s back arches as his soul bursts out and shrieks like a banshee. Colors of red, black, blue, purple fly by his eyes as the last drips of essence escape him. All he can see is the general looming over him with shadows cast over his face. All he can hear is 

Alistair’s voice, desperate and shattered, screaming, 

“Azazel!” 

And then it all goes black.


	13. The Mourning of the Wedding

Gunnora has been standing out at the harbor since the fight with Savaric and Grimald. It ended poorly, with her and Dad getting beaten to a pulp but still putting up enough fight to let Alistair escape. Savaric and Grimald were livid. They said they’d have her dishonorably discharged, disgraced, and imprisoned. She doesn’t care what they think they can do or even what they can do. All she wants is for her friends to come home, safe. She just wants everything to be okay again. 

So, she’s been out at the docks, waiting for Alistair’s return. She wants to be the first to hear the news of what he managed to work out for Azazel. But as every hour goes on, she’s been growing more anxious. Alistair set off around eight o’clock in the night. Right now, it’s around two in the morning. She’s starting to worry that something went very, very wrong. 

What if Alistair never made it to the island? What if he sank and drowned? What if the storm blew him off course and he missed the island entirely and now he’s stranded out at sea? She pushes these anxieties aside. Just because Alistair hasn’t returned doesn’t mean he’s in danger. The general has yet to return, too. They’ll likely come back together. She’s not sure if she likes that scenario, either. 

General Thurston… she’s starting to suspect he’s not worth the pedestal she’s put him on. The rest of her family feels the same way, especially her father. He spent all night cursing the general when he thought everyone was asleep. Even some of the townsfolk seem less keen. Not necessarily less keen about the general, but about his wedding. After the duel, everyone knows the relationship between he and Alistair is far from perfect. The ideal fairy tale wedding they’d been dreaming to see has been dashed away from them.

Through the fog, something emerges. She squints, struggling to see in the dark morning sky. As it grows closer, she discovers it’s a boat. And not just any boat: a boat specifically for transportation to and from Grimsby Island Penitentiary. 

Her heart soars. A surge of excitement rushes through her, and she fights to contain a shout of victory at the sight. Could it be? Could Azazel have been released? Is he finally coming home? The boat docks at the end of the pier. She races to it like there’s gold on board. 

The walkway on the boat is lowered. A prison guard exits, securing the boat and the ramp. When it’s solid, he motions for someone on board to come down. From her spot on the dock, she sees a dark head bobbing toward the exit. Azazel? Her fists clench with jubilation; a grin stretches across her face. This is it. This is it!

The passenger arrives on the walkway. Immediately, her smile falls. 

General Thurston descends, his arm securely around Alistair. Alistair is wrapped in a blanket. He clutches the fabric tight, so tight he might pierce it. His gaze is absent and glossy. He does not meet her eyes. 

She forgoes saluting the general. She hurries up to him, fighting to keep her voice from cracking. 

“Where is Azazel?” 

Alistair does not express anything to indicate what happened. He does not express anything at all. His eyes are open, but they’re not functioning. He’s not functioning, as if he’s detached from the world. 

“Where is he?” She demands, her voice threatening to waver. 

The general offers her a sad, remorseful look. Holding Alistair tighter, he says, 

“I’m sorry. Azazel is dead.” 

****

She’s not sure how she didn’t cry on the spot. Mostly, she just felt dread. Dread and denial, like this is all a horrible nightmare that she’ll wake up from, and then she’ll continue on with her life like normal. Training at the dojo, working on her regiment, hanging out with Azazel at the inn, getting drinks with him late at night. She knows that won’t happen. So why doesn’t she know it? 

Maybe to distract herself, maybe not, she’s been asking herself one question on repeat as she returns to her dad’s dojo: how am I going to tell everyone? How is she going to break it to everyone that things are much, much worse than they ever imagined? How is she going to tell them that no, Alistair didn’t get Azazel pardoned, and he’s not coming home, because he’s—because he’s—

The dojo door in front of her opens. It takes her a long while to realize that’s because she opened it. It takes her even longer to realize everyone’s staring at her, expectant. 

There’s more people here than she thought there would be. She always knew Azazel had friends, despite his profession, but she had no idea what lengths it went to. From where she stands in the doorway, she can see Officer Nigel, a group of medics, Muriel the bartender, Adallinda the singer, and all the librarians. Her family is at the front of them all, standing under a banner. It reads, ‘Welcome Home, Azazel!’

It’s Mom who realizes something is wrong, first. She lowers the box of cookies in her hands, her cheery disposition faltering. “Gunnora? Baby, what’s wrong?” 

The room is washed with a sudden, quiet solemnity. They lean forward and wait for her to break the news. She takes a deep, shaking breath, takes a step inside, and closes the door behind her. 

“Guys,” she says, trying to keep her voice from breaking. She fails. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

Dad hurries to her, putting an arm around her. She accepts it, but doesn’t let her tears fall. 

“Alistair’s plan—it didn’t work,” she begins, trembling. Her eyes well up. She relays what the general told her: “It was too late. Azazel got in a prison brawl and got a really bad injury. It got infected, but, but no one noticed. And because of the infection, he… he…” 

“He what?” Adney says, his eyes full of worry. 

“Azazel’s dead,” she states before she even realizes it. Mom drops her box of cookies in shock, covering her mouth as tears stream down her face.   
It’s the first time she’s said it. 

Dad holds her tight, covering his face as he weeps. 

It’s the first time it’s hit her. 

“Oh, god,” she croaks, tears spilling out. They sting and burn and make her throat raw as she sobs, “Azazel’s gone. He’s dead. He’s dead!” 

She crumples to the floor, bawling. 

****

Alistair sits in the lounge. He stares into the blazing fire, watching as it burns the logs inside to ashes. Savaric and Grimald sit across from him, eyeing him as if he might leap up and bolt. They ought to know he has no desire to run, now. His flame has been snuffed out like a candle in a storm. 

Pepin serves everyone their morning tea, at eight o’clock sharp as always. His wings shake as he places each saucer on the table, eyes darting to each person with fright. He must be able to sense tension in the room. Alistair cannot. Alistair cannot sense anything. 

The general returns from the bedroom, holding Alistair’s love poems in his hand. He does not give them another glance before tossing them into the fire, burning them to a crisp. Alistair does not try to spare them. He has no use for them now that his heart has gone. 

Since the incident in the prison, he has felt nothing. He is empty. Hollow. Emotionless. Azazel’s death ripped away a part of him that he will never replace. It’s as if Azazel’s fleeting soul took his own. He has not said a word to anyone since that moment. Now, although he does not turn to the general, he opens his mouth. 

“Tell me what you did.” 

The general pauses, staring into the fireplace. Alistair’s gaze drifts from his burning poetry to the general. 

“Tell me,” he repeats, a monotone command, “What you did.” 

The room is still, as if it is holding its breath. Savaric and Grimald share a knowing glance. Alistair doesn’t have to size them up to deduce that they know everything. Of course they know everything; they’re the general’s most prized companions. He greatly suspects that they might have witnessed the event, or even took part in it.   
The general watches the fire as if it’s not real. As if it’s from another time, another place, both far, far away from here. He does not face Alistair when he responds, “I carried out my duty.” 

“Which was to what? Slaughter your own citizens?” 

Savaric and Grimald stand, as if to strike him for his offense. He doesn’t bat an eye at them. The general holds up his hand, and they halt. 

“This island was filth before I purified it,” he states, straightening his back with conviction. “I did what had to be done.” 

“I fail to see how mass murder is ever the correct solution.” 

“Because you are naive.” 

“No, because I do not lack basic moral dignity.” 

The general turns from the fire to him. Half of his face is concealed by flickering shadow.

“Watch your tone,” he orders, stern. “You know nothing.” 

“Explain it to me, then,” Alistair says. He fixes the general with an expressionless, dead look. “Explain what led you to such a thing.” 

The general clasps his hands behind his back. Gazing at the far wall, he seems to be looking into a window of the past. The firelight is reflected in his eyes. 

“A little over fifteen years ago, I was given a task: to make Beggar’s Hole pristine,” he begins, recounting the events as if they had been chronicled in his journal. “To understand why I was driven to such measures, you must understand the nature of Beggar’s Hole. It was squalid. Sordid. Much like the very parasite it bore, Azazel.” 

Alistair flinches. 

“The settlement was unofficial and thereby not adherent to the government’s laws. At least, in their minds, they weren’t,” he continues. “The pit was run amok with crime. Lawlessness and corruption were rampant, disease and plagues, even more so. The things those people did would make an innocent like you shudder.” 

Alistair looks away from him, to the fire.

“I was told to fix the issue.” He turns to the fire. “I was told to adopt them into our nation and reform them. But I knew no efforts to reform or revitalize them would prove fruitful. No, they were a stained, depraved mass of reprobates. I knew the only way to cleanse this entire island and make it an acceptable part of our great nation was to eradicate the source of it’s villainy. And those people—dare I call them people—were the source.” 

He sighs, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, a few loose strings slipped by me. A group of children managed to flee to Ilracorn, but my men took care of them within a few months. I thought that had been the end of it, and that this matter could finally be laid to rest. But then, mere months ago, I received a letter from an old friend of mine, Eustace. He complained about a delinquent in his town, a delinquent hailing from Beggar’s Hole.” 

“Azazel,” Alistair says. 

“Indeed,” the general answers, his expression taking on a hint of disgust. “One last creature had escaped me. I knew not if he recalled my involvement in the wiping out of Beggar’s Hole, so I needed to ensure his silence. I scheduled our wedding to be here so that I could dispose of him. And to think: he came to me in search of protection. It was quite a favorable turn of events, allowing me to know his whereabouts at all times except for when he crept away. Quite a wily bastard.” 

For the first time all day, Alistair emotes. He scowls. 

“I assure you,” the general begins, “I attempted to remove myself from the task as much as possible so that I could focus on our wedding, my pet. But the ditto clan proved to be far too incompetent. I terminated the first assassin after they had injured you so gravely, and I thought that would be a sufficient lesson to them to improve their performance, but it appears it was not. Thus, I had to take matters into my own hands.” 

“Yes, your splendid little traps. Remind me: how well did those work again?” 

The general clenches his jaw, fuming at the insult. Alistair rises, maintaining eye contact the entire time. 

“You,” he says, emotions bubbling back inside of him, “Are despicable.” 

Savaric and Grimald are itching to repay his words with a blow, but they silently stand to the side and await orders. 

“I advise you to watch your words,” the general says, slow and dangerous. 

“Your ridiculous, unhealthy, absurd obsession with maintaining a pristine reputation has backfired on you greatly. Laughably,” he declares, loathing and fury simmering inside him. He does not stop, even when the general takes a threatening step towards him. “You have grown so paranoid with appearing pristine that you have forgotten to be genuinely clean.” 

General Thurston’s eyes are alight with a fire more blistering than the one before them. “Your tone is not fitting of the general’s groom.” 

“I never wanted to be your groom!” He shouts, snatching his tea and flinging it at the wall. It smashes into shards, and he yells, “And I never will!” 

“Get ahold of yourself, Alistair!” He barks as Pepin nervously flutters over to clean his mess. “You are behaving like a child!” 

“And you,” he seethes, marching straight up to him and pointing an accusing finger at him, “Are a monster.” 

“Alistair,” he says, a warning. 

“You’re a monster!” 

“Alistair.” 

“You’re a monster, a monster! And someday, the whole world will know it! And you’ll be nothing more than a—than a disgraced, detested, reputation-torn wretch!” 

The general whips around, striking Alistair across the face. 

He staggers back, collapsing on the couch behind him. His hand, instinctively, is on his face where he was struck. After a stunned moment, he pulls it back. Ichor is on his hand.

General Thurston has never hit him. Not once. 

The general regards him with a stern yet remorseful look. He turns away from him, his back facing him. 

“That hurt me more than it hurt you,” he claims with sickening self-pity, squaring his shoulders. Alistair’s eyes flick up to his frame, scowling at the back of his head. “But it seems you needed to be reminded of your place.”

With a curt motion from the general, Savaric and Grimald seize him. They yank him up, rather roughly, forcing him towards the stairs to the bedroom. As he passes the general, however, he looks him in the eye and spits, “Someday, you will fall. And I’ll be there to watch it happen.” 

****

Everything is confusing. Nothing is real. Reds, blacks, blues, purples, and colors that do not exist rush past. Sight is temporary. Vision is an illusion. Images are merely what we wish them to be. Sounds, there are none. And yet, it is far too loud. What do we hear in this universe but the cries of agony coldly unanswered? Who is able to offer a response but the void? 

Existence, as a soul untimely untethered from its mortal cage, is transcendental and leads to nothing. This soul: who’s was it? Where did it once belong? A mortal creature, a mortal known as Azazel. Where is it going now? What is ‘now’? Time is of the essence, they say, but time is a construct by which the universe does not heed. 

Time, for example, can be used to reference things that occur when the mortal host lives in a more youthful version of their body. Or, perhaps, to reference things that occur when the mortal host lives in an older version of their body. 

Time. Past. Present. Future. 

Aren’t they all blood in the same vein? 

 

\---

 

Azazel is eight years old. He is homeless. Parentless. Friendless. He’s just run away from that stupid orphanage and has wandered the wilderness for a few days. That’s when he stumbled upon this weird place.

‘Welcome to Skystead Town!’ The sign reads. Azazel only knows what it says because another visitor reads it out loud. He squints at the words as he passes by. They make no sense. They’re just weird markings in wood. Why would anyone want to learn to read? Sounds boring. 

He follows the cobblestone road aimlessly, gazing at the buildings in awe and slight fear. They’re huge. Not as big as Ilracorn, but bigger than Home, that’s for sure. It feels like the buildings are too tall and they’ll topple over on him. He wishes Mom and Dad were with him so he wouldn’t be so scared. 

He sniffs and squeezes his eyes shut until his tears go away. He’s not gonna cry. Never again. If he’s living alone, he’s gotta be the grown up now. That means he never ever ever ever cries. 

Drifting through the marketplace, he’s surprised to find that the merchants don’t sit on the floor. They have carts. Pretty carts, full of colors and words and yummy smelling foods. People are smiling and talking and laughing. Why is this marketplace so happy? Aren’t they supposed to be quiet and dirty? 

The mouth-watering scent of something scrumptious wafts through the air. It makes Azazel realize just how hungry he is. 

The food in question is a stick of roasted berries. The vendor is holding it in the air, waving it like a flag and attracting customers with the delectable smells. Azazel floats over to the stand involuntarily, lured in at the prospect of a tasty meal. He pauses, however, when he sees a customer exchange money for the food. 

He has no money. But he needs to eat. 

He looks around. 

A drunk, bumbling idiot comes stumbling down the street. A vigoroth, surrounded by a haze of cigar smoke, nearly topples into a trashcan before steadying himself. In his hand, he loosley holds a wad of cash.

Immediately, Azazel rushes behind him. He creeps up, as close as he can without being noticed. Then, leaning close, he snatches a few of the dollars and darts away. The rest of the money in the man’s hand slips out and falls to the ground. 

“Eh? Huh? Ey!” The vigoroth shouts, shaking a fist at him. Azazel races down the unfamiliar street, trying not to be trampled by the bustling crowd. “Thief! Thief!” 

The vigoroth scoops his loose cash together, chasing after him. Azazel gasps, dropping the money in fright and bolting off. The vigoroth stomps right on it as he pursues, too enraged to see it. Azazel only makes it a few more feet before he’s snatched out of the air. 

“Gotcha, ya little rat!” The vigoroth spits, his breath reeking of beer. Azazel squirms and fights to get away. Squeezing him like he wants to pop his head off, the vigoroth demands, “Now, where’s my money?!” 

Azazel shakes his head. “I don’t have it! It’s on the—” 

The man shakes him and shouts over him. “Shuddup! Where’s my money?!” 

He keeps shaking him and shouting and spitting in his face until a pebble soars through the air and harmlessly boinks the vigoroth in the head. They both turn, facing a little buneary as she bounds over to them. When she reaches them, she promptly kicks the vigoroth in the shin. 

“Ow! Ya little shit, what’re ya—?!” 

“Leave him alone, you big fat meanie!” She orders, stomping on his foot, hard. The man clutches his toes and hops on one foot, howling in pain. He drops Azazel to the ground. The moment Azazel can get up, he scampers away. 

“Hey, wait!” The girl calls.

He doesn’t. He runs. He runs, runs, runs away from the merchant’s square, runs away from the bustling crowds, runs away from the angry man, runs away from all these tall buildings and all this noise. He runs until he hits a dirt road. Dirt roads are familiar. Dirt roads are like Home. The path leads to a big, wooden building. Outside, a lopunny is sweeping the porch. She sees him, and smiles. 

“Hi, honey, welcome to my inn,” she says, a warm look in her eyes. “Is there something you need?” 

He’s about to open his mouth when behind him, he hears, “Hey!” 

Spinning around, he sees the buneary from before bouncing after him. Hastily, he flees, slipping around the inn and hiding behind a trash can in the back. Pressing his back to the wall, he sniffles. He squeezes his eyes shut. No crying. No crying, no more. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the girl pops her head around the corner. “Hi!” 

He shoots up and races off, but she cries, “Wait, wait, don’t go!” 

His run comes to a halt, but he doesn’t confront her. He hides behind the trash can, peering at her suspiciously. 

“I can tell you’re scared,” she says. “But you don’t have to be! If you promise to be my best friend forever, I’ll take care of you!” 

Silently, he sizes her up. She’s grinning at him with a missing tooth and her fur is raggedy. She’s got a bandage over her arm and scrapes all over her body, as if she’s always getting into fights. But if she’s smiling like that, she has to win all those fights. Right? Kids who smile like that aren’t scared of anything. 

Slowly, he emerges from the safety of the trash can. She beams at him, and he drifts over to her. 

“My name is Gunnora!” She chirps, practically dragging him inside the inn. “What’s yours?” 

Time shifts. 

 

\---

 

Azazel is not eight. Azazel is not twenty five. Azazel is not in between, he is older. But not by much. 

He is in the medic’s office. Sunlight is pouring through the windows, cascading over every gentle surface. It warms the room like a sweater. Vases with flowers cover the nearby table; they smell of spring and happiness and new beginnings. There are no sounds. Nothing but the quiet, rhythmic breathing of someone sleeping.  
That someone is below him, in his arms. He’s holding something. Something made of cloth, something soft. A swaddle. 

A baby? 

Time shifts. 

 

\---

 

Azazel is twenty five. He is not alive. He is not in Skystead, where everyone else is. The town square is uncharacteristically empty. It’s decorated in gorgeous flowers and other elegant attire, like a fairy tale. 

The town is gathered at the cliffside, where the best view of the ocean is. There’s a wedding arch. General Thurston and Alistair stand under it. 

Wait, what? 

Oh, hell no. 

Time starts where he left it: the present. 

****

Azazel shoots straight up, gasping for air like he’s been underwater for decades. Unable to steady himself, he falls off the table he was on, slamming into the floor. 

He breathes. He breathes some more. He breathes so much and so fast that he thinks he’s starting to hyperventilate. 

What happened? He can’t figure out an answer to that question; all he can do is stare at the brick ceiling. What the hell happened? Last he remembers, he was on a torture bed and the general ripped his soul out of his body. Now he’s on an unfamiliar floor, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, and still in incredible pain. 

Hissing from exertion, he slowly brings himself into a sitting position. He looks around. He finds his surroundings are not all that unfamiliar, after all. 

He’s still in the prison. To be specific, he’s in the morgue. He fell off the morgue’s operation table. After doing a quick pat down of himself, he realizes (to his immense relief) that they had not yet begun the autopsy and he is luckily in possession of all his body parts. He suspects they wouldn’t have performed much of an autopsy, anyways. They probably would’ve just chucked his body down the chute or dumped him in the ocean. 

Okay, so he’s alive. He was dead, but now he’s alive. Okay, okay, cool, okay. 

What time is it? Is it already the seventh day? Is it the day of the wedding? 

Is he too late? 

He jumps to his feet, preparing to bust out of the prison only to realize he has absolutely no plan. It was impossible enough, coming back from the dead. Now he has to escape an inescapable prison, travel across the water, and get back to town in time? 

This is not going to be easy.


	14. The General and the Thief

Time is slipping away from him like sand in a grate. 

The day of the wedding has crept up, it’s here, and Azazel isn’t there. How much time does he have before Alistair is married off to the general? Hours? Minutes? His stomach sinks with dread. How is he going to get there in time? 

His feet start moving before he has a plan. Maybe, that’s just what he needs. There’s no time to think, he has to act. He has to use every second he has and push it towards his goal: saving Alistair. He hobbles out of the morgue, steadying himself on the wall. Glancing down the hall, he sees no one. Hastily, he stumbles through the corridor. 

Eventually, guards are going to find him. And when they do, it won’t be pretty. He’s in no shape to fight. He’s in no shape for much of anything, really. If he is confronted by a guard, his best hope is to slip away from them. He can’t outfight and he can’t outrun. 

From where he is now, there are two more corners he has to turn before he reaches the exit. The exit is guarded by at least two guards at all times, but other than that, it is relatively lax. Prisoners are almost always in their cells or being put to work, so they usually don’t have to deal with prisoners wandering the halls. Especially prisoners that were dead just a little bit ago. But just because they’re lax doesn’t mean he can be, too. They have a strong advantage over him in every way. He has to find a way to slip by them. 

Perhaps he can use stealth to his advantage and sneak past them. He doesn’t suspect that it will work, because there’s not much room to hide, but if it did that would be ideal. Nothing’s ever ideal for him, though, so he suspects his aim will be to pull the lever that releases all the prisoners, causing mass chaos so great that they won’t have time to catch him. 

Far down the hall, he hears frantic shouting. He turns, but sees no one. From the morgue, two shadows scurry around the room and yell to each other about finding something. They must’ve discovered his body is missing. 

He picks up the pace. Well, as much as his mangled body can. Just as he turns the first corner, he hears a voice bark, “There he is!” 

Physically, he shouldn’t run. He does anyways. 

The pounding of feet reverberates through the hall and grows louder with every step. They’re getting closer, far too close, and he doesn’t need to glance back to know it. He can hear their shouting and running like they’re right next to him. 

His leg, the one the general stabbed, gives out suddenly. He stabilizes himself against the wall to avoid falling. The wall is shaking with the tremors of the stampeding guards. 

Right behind him, a hand thrusts out to snatch him. He ducks and dives to the side, rolling out of his attacker’s range. When he jumps back to his feet, his head spins like it’s about to fall off. He wobbles back, staggering away from the assailant as his vision moves in and out of focus. 

When he regains clarity, he sees none other than Warden stalking towards him. Three guards back her. Her ever-present sadistic cheer is gone, replaced with a furious snarl. 

“You,” she seethes, raising her arm high to strike him, “Are getting to be a real pain!” 

She swipes at him, intent on ripping him to pieces, but he backs out of the way just in time. He turns and runs, teetering on the verge of collapse. He only makes it a few steps before he’s knocked down by a guard. The guard, straddling him, winds back a fist and brings it down to Azazel’s face. Right before it makes contact, Azazel moves his head to the side and they punch solid brick. 

Howling in pain and clutching their swelling hand, they let their guard down enough for Azazel to throw them off. Another guard rushes to take their place, but Azazel twists to his hands and knees, gets up, and takes off running. Running is easier than it was before he was almost slugged in the face. Could this be an adrenaline rush taking over? 

Whatever it is, he doesn’t think much of it. He allows it to pump through him and invigorate him and revitalize him and carry him closer to freedom. Closer, and closer, and closer the last turn in the corridor grows. Once he turns that corner, the lever will be on the far end of the hall, under watch by two guards. If he wants to flip the switch, he’ll have to be decisive. Quick. 

He turns the corner. As he suspected, the door and lever are guarded. Too bad he underestimated how many guards there would be. 

Not two, not three, but four guards stand at the exit. That pits him against seven guards and the warden. Not great. But he’s seen worse. 

When the four guards at the end of the hall see the chase, two of them leap up to block his path. They barrel at him, arms spread wide as if to snatch him right off the ground. Instead of confronting them, he slides to the ground, slipping right between the tallest one’s legs. He jumps back to his feet just as the two guards crash clumsily into the others. Warden, witnessing the embarrassing blunder, screeches, “I’ll have your heads and your jobs if you don’t catch him now!” 

The other two guards at the entrance are spurred to action by her vicious cry. They don’t charge in as haphazardly as the others did, allowing him instead to come to them. He decides to not do that. 

Leaping off the floor, he begins to float mid-run, running from the floor to the wall to the ceiling and back again in one fluid spiral. He leaves the last two guards in the dust, fumbling and scratching their heads trying to figure out where he went. 

“Behind you, you imbeciles!” Warden roars, inflamed. 

But it’s too late. By the time they’re all turned around and ready to attack him, Azazel’s already slammed the cage door that separates the hall from the iron doors. He latches it securely, locking them out. 

“I’ll have you gutted!” She threatens, pounding a fist on the cage and making it rattle. “I’ll tear you to shreds!” 

Azazel saunters to the lever carelessly. The guards go very, very still.

“Don’t you dare,” she growls, her eyes burning. He places his hand on the switch. “Don’t you dare!” 

Azazel watches them a moment. He watches them tremble in their own skin, and he relishes it.

“Do you remember,” he begins, “When I first came here and you said you’d kill me in the week and I said I’d escape instead?” 

She glowers at him, livid. She’s quivering with rage. 

He grins. “I win.” 

He pulls the lever. 

A loud, blaring alarm blasts through the facility. Rusty cells creak open slowly, like the dead emerging from their graves. Immediately, the warden and the guards whip around to face the opening cells. 

At first, nothing happens. Then, out of the cell with the sign reading, ‘Welcome! Please Enjoy Your Stay!’ a foot emerges. From the depths of the cell crammed with starved prisoners, the garchomp prowls out. 

Other prisoners begin to join them. Brutalized, angry, vengeful prisoners. Their eyes scrape along the hall until they land on the warden and her guards. With a hundred raving, wrathful eyes fixed on them, the guards seem a lot less willing to pick a fight with their prisoners. 

Azazel backs away, pushing the iron doors open. A sliver of sunlight slips into the room. Waving the warden goodbye, he says, “Better luck next time, pal.” 

He slams the doors shut just as the prisoners charge, leaving her to her grisly, well-deserved fate. 

Racing down the jagged, steep slope of bones and ash, he finds that the adrenaline high he’d been thriving off of is already dwindling away. By the time he gets the the bottom of the hill, he’s stumbling and losing balance. Tripping over his own feet, he catches himself on a dock post and takes a moment to soak in his situation. 

He’s in a lot of pain, getting worse by the minute. He’s miles away from Bloomfield Island. It’s a sunny, clear day, making it feasible for him to travel home by floating, but his injuries make him reluctant to do that. If the pain gets too great and he passes out, he’ll drown. Either he needs to take that risk, or he needs to find another way to the island. 

There is, he believes, a prison boat. He saw it on his way in. Picking his head up, he searches the docks for anything of the kind. He sees nothing, no boats docked at the prison. Someone must have traveled on it recently.

That leaves him with one option, and he doesn’t really like it: he has to float across. 

As much as he detests the idea, he’s not going to wait around and mope about it. If he wants to stop this wedding, he doesn't have time to do anything else. Based on where the sun is in the sky, he’d guess it’s a little past noon. Knowing Alistair, he probably pushed the wedding as far back as he possibly could in the day, if only to enjoy a few more hours of freedom. Azazel’s counting on that, praying on that as he sets off across the sea. 

The trip to Grimsby Island felt like an eternity. The trip back is that tenfold. There’s so much more at stake to the return trip than the arrival. The arrival, he risked torture and life-long detainment. Yeah, sure, that’s bad and all. But with the return, he risks hurrying to town only to realize it’s too late, and the general has taken Alistair. 

Maybe the crawling pace is because floating is much slower than sailing. It’s hard to float quickly, especially when in pain. He’s agonizing the seconds that creep by, feeling each like a nail in his heart. His worries are racing, but his body is not, it’s drifting aimlessly along as if he has nowhere to be. 

Something has to change. He can’t float all the way across the sea, not in time. But what can he do? He’s surrounded by nothing but ocean, ocean, lapras, ocean… 

Wait. 

“Hey, you!” He shouts, hovering over to the swimming lapras. She turns to face him, blinking inquisitively past her pink bandana. When he reaches her, he swipes the bandana right off her head. 

“Wha—hey!” She protests, turning sharply to try and swat at him. Her flippers don’t allow for much luck with that, though, and after dancing around her and holding her bandana tauntingly out of reach, she huffs, “What do you want?” 

“A ride to the mainland,” he says, already making himself comfortable on the back of her shell. Twirling her bandana around, he adds, “And make it fast.” 

****

The wedding guests are filing into their seats. Alistair watches them. For years, this had been his greatest fear: standing here, at the altar, awaiting his impending doom. Now that it is upon him, he feels nothing. He lacks the dread, misery, or terror he always imagined he’d be fraught with. He lacks everything. He just feels empty. 

After the duel and subsequent demise of Azazel, the town has been rather on edge. In order to put on a display of generosity and to ease them, the general graciously invited them to attend his wedding as well—as long as they remain in the back. Dear Gunnora is one of those in attendance, seated by her family in one of the last rows. She catches his gaze. Excusing herself, she stands and makes her way to him. 

He hasn’t seen her since the general broke the news to her on the docks. How sickening General Thurston treated the issue, too, feigning sympathy for the death when he was the cause. Even thinking of such wrongs, Alistair does not find himself bubbling with any particular emotion. 

Gunnora reaches him. She regards him with eyes of incredible mourning, of inconsolable sadness, and wraps him in an embrace. Mechanically, he returns the gesture. That’s all he’s functioning on today. Mechanics. 

She pulls away, wiping at her eyes. She shoots a fearful glance at the cut on his cheek, nicely covered with cosmetics, but not covered enough. Giving him a dire, meaningful look, she asks, “Are you okay?” 

“No. I am nothing,” he responds, his tone flat. “I am neither okay nor am I not.” 

She nods, sniffing and looking away. Her eyes wander to the general, who’s chatting pleasantly with Savaric and Grimald. Her attention snaps back. She leans in, whispering, “What really happened to Azazel?” 

Alistair purses his lips. For the first time, he almost feels something. Almost. 

He takes her hands, squeezing them. “If I could tell you, dear, I would. But you would meet the same fate as Azazel if I did so.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees General Thurston watching them. Gunnora must see him, too, because she removes her hands from Alistair’s, gives him a quick yet tense hug, and excuses herself. Alistair watches her return to her seat just as the general approaches him. He places a hand on Alistair’s shoulder, and Alistair does not shudder. He does not even have to suppress an urge to do so. 

“Now, now, my pet,” he chides, “Most people are a little happier on their wedding day. Why don’t you try to smile?” 

Alistair coolly meets his gaze. “Or what? You’ll strike me again?” 

The general presses his mouth into a thin line to avoid scowling in the eyes of the public. Tightening his grip on Alistair’s shoulder, the general grudgingly settles for his expressions of hollow apathy. The priest arrives, and the general kindly greets her. Alistair does not. 

The priest holds the Holy Book before her, smiling at them. “So. Shall we start this wedding?” 

****

“Wait… we’re how many miles away from Skystead? I told you to get me there, not to drop me in the middle of nowhere!” 

The lapras huffs, turning her nose up at him. Her bandana is wrapped back around her head. “I’m not a luxury cruise. You held my stuff hostage. Be thankful I even brought you this far.” 

“Listen, I’ve gotta get back to town, like, now,” Azazel insists, trying not to let panic overtake his voice. The sun creeps across the sky like a spider. He forces himself not to agonize over it. “It’s an emergency. You know: justice, and true love, and—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts, already swimming away. “I’ll believe it when I see it, pal.” 

He opens his mouth to shout at her, then closes it, then resigns to throwing rude gestures her way. Looking to the sky, he sees it’s just a little past noon. The sun is slightly in front of him, hovering over the ocean. That means he’s facing west, and Skystead is towards the south. Turning left, he embarks on his last stretch of the journey. 

The aches and pains in his body have only gotten worse as the day has dragged on. Running through the uneven terrain of the wilderness is making that pain even more prominent. Every wound is burning like it’s been impaled with a flaming blade, and every joint and bone and organ in his body throbs. 

Stumbling through the ferns and brush, he knows that if he’s going to make it back to town, he can’t dwell on his injuries. Instead, he thinks of Alistair. Is he okay? Is he already married? Is it too late? 

****

The priest has begun the ceremony. Everyone sits and watches, silent, as if at the gallows. With hundreds of eyes on him and the general, Alistair doesn’t feel a drop of intimacy for the man holding his hands at the altar. He doesn’t even feel contempt. He simply feels nothing. 

As the priest reads from her book, outlining the beauties the two will soon share as one, Alistair hears a faint whisper in the crowd. His eyes flick over to the source: one of the general’s wedding guests, an affluent businesswoman. She’s leaned close to her wife and is muttering something in her ear, eyeing the cut on Alistair’s cheek dubiously. Her wife shares her concern. 

Can they see what the general did to him? Good. 

He tilts his cheek into the sun, casting the shadows away from the mark on his face, showing it off to the world. A few more people notice, gasping quietly. They’re scandalized. Scandalized at the thought of their beloved general committing such a crime. 

General Thurston’s eyes glint with danger, a silent threat to cease his actions. Alistair only presents his scar more, daring the general to do something about it. 

****

Azazel’s never been so happy to see the Underside. 

He stumbles onto the dirt streets, catching himself on a garbage can. Steadying himself is almost harder than running. Gripping the edge of the bin, he fights to stand straight, only to falter back down. 

His vision is growing blurrier by the second. Black dots dance in his eyes and make his head hazy. It’s almost like he’s dying all over again. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to regain his sight. 

There’s no time to die by a trash can. He may not be able to see right or walk right, but he pushes himself off and staggers down the street.   
He makes it two feet. 

Falling against a wall, he shudders as pain and chills course through him. His eyes, barely open, are bleary and dim. The world around him is closing in. 

“Well, well, well,” a nasally, mocking voice begins, guffawing at the sight of him. From the sewer drains, masses of grimer slink to the surface. Their eyes are alight with vengeance. The leader of them, a muk, states, “If it ain’t that ol’ banette that messed with my crew. Fancy seein’ ya here in such a bad situation.” 

Azazel musters all his strength to scowl at them. He nearly blacks out just from that. 

The Grimer Gang surrounds him, leering down at him. They look like demons, all of them: demons that are way, way too pleased by his pain. Worst of all, they look eager to add to that pain. 

“Ya shouldn’ta messed with The Grimer Gang,” the muk spits, shoving him back. He falls, leaning heavily on the wall so he won’t fall on his ass. The grimers are grinning as they size him up. They know he’s at his weakest. “Now, you’re gonna pay.” 

Clawing at the wall, he forces himself to his feet. He’d like to size them up, too, and see how many he’s up against, but his vision is blurring and making him see double. He’s surrounded by five to ten grimers with this muk. Not great. 

There’s no way he’ll win in a direct confrontation. He has to weasel his way out of this one; he has to convince them not to fight him. Can he bluff well enough to pretend he’s in better condition than he really is? Hopefully. 

His body protests as his spine jerks upright, positioning himself as if he’s well put together and not on the brink of death. They eye him suspiciously, like he’s a ticking bomb. At the very least, he has their caution on his side. Maybe he can play to that. 

“You guys really wanna get your asses beat a second time?” He asks, carefully maintaining a flat tone. He can’t let one hint of weakness slip by. Folding his arms, he states, “It would be really embarrassing for your gang. People might take you even less seriously than they do now.” 

The leader’s mouth twists with thought. Azazel is surprised he’s taking a moment to ponder it. He wasn’t sure anyone in this gang had two brain cells to rub together.   
Still, the muk takes an aggravatingly long time. Maybe he really doesn’t have two brain cells, and that’s why it takes him so long to stew over one simple thought. Whatever it is, it’s dragging on far too long for Azazel’s comfort, as his shaking is growing more apparent and his knees threaten to buckle. 

Then, the muk grins. It’s a toothless, cruel smile. 

“You’re bluffin’,” he proclaims, as if it wasn’t obvious. Azazel is covered in ghastly wounds and his barely able to stand on his own. He’s guessing his poker face isn’t the best, either, on account that he can’t really tell which of the two muks he sees is the real one. “Ya can’t beat us, not when I’m here. And ya look like shit.” 

“And you look as beautiful as ever,” Azazel drawls, falling against the wall. The grimers chuckle at the sight, closing in. “You really don’t have better things to do?” 

“What could be better than teaching some punk a lesson?” 

His bluff didn’t work. The gang is advancing on him. He needs a new plan, and fast. One punch might just knock him out cold, and he doesn’t have time to waste. The sun is moving in the sky; the wedding must have begun by now. 

The first grimer throws a punch, and Azazel sinks into the ground. He doesn’t have the energy to keep himself down there long enough to dart past them, so his body is ejected right back where he came. When he adjusts to being on the surface again, he sees the grimers lunging at him with grubby hands. 

Immediately, he dives through the wall. He tumbles across the floor on the other side, inside someone’s house. He rolls to a stop by a dining table with one broken leg. At the table, chugging a beer, sits Geoffrey. 

Ugh. God. Could this get worse? 

Geoffrey sees him, but doesn’t react right away. His eyes are glazed over and unresponsive. Likely, he’s way too drunk to do anything about Azazel being in his house right now. Which is great, because the last thing he needs is The Grimer Gang and Geoffrey teaming up to kick his ass. Unfortunately, Geoffrey is not alone. There’s a hooker in his bed, and the moment she sees Azazel, she snatches a broom and charges toward him. 

Floundering to his feet, he fumbles with the doorknob and thrusts himself outside just as she swings. He falls to the street as she shakes her fists and cusses him out very colorfully. Unfortunately, her creative language is the perfect beacon for The Grimer Gang. From the alleyway beside Geoffrey’s house, Azazel spots a grimer peering down. Once the grimer locks onto him, he shouts for the rest of his gang and chases after him. Azazel curses to himself, giving the prostitute the finger before fleeing. 

He supposes ‘fleeing’ is a generous term. Really, what he’s doing is stumbling aimlessly down the street in hopes that it will lead him somewhere he wants to be.   
Luckily, grimers and muks are slow. They ooze after him, travelling at about the same speed as honey on a table top. But Azazel can’t say that he’s much faster right now. Every step he takes is met with shooting pain in his legs, rocketing through every inch of his being. He’ll take five steps before he has to stagger to the side and brace himself on a wall. 

The muk is gaining on him. He slides faster than the others because he has more goo to glide on top of. He’s rolling dangerously close to Azazel, dangerously close to reaching out and snatching him. There’s no way he’s gonna escape like this. At the rate this is going, he’ll be captured and they’ll beat the rest of his life out of him. If he’s gonna survive this, he needs something between him and them. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty to run out of Geoffrey’s house. That old sleazebag and the prostitute could’ve been good distractions, especially if she swung that broom around like crazy. 

His mind races for a new plan, but he’s not given a chance to form one. The muk snags him, ripping him off the ground and throwing him back toward the grimers. He hits the ground, hard, skidding to a halt halfway between the muk and his crew. Once again, he’s surrounded, hooting and hollering thugs on all sides. They close in. 

He struggles to stand, but the muk grabs him before he can even lift one knee. Raising him high, the leader slams him against the dirt. The grimers jeer and laugh. Azazel’s head spins as he’s raised again. He’s slammed back down. 

The world is fuzzy. Hazy. Unclear, unreal. His mind blinks in and out of awareness as the muk batters him against the street. Sneering and howling bash his ears.   
There is nothing he can do. He doesn’t have the ability to phase through the muk’s hand and he doesn’t have the energy to fight back. Essentially, he’s a limp ragdoll. All he can do is wait for it to be over. What will happen after this? Will they kill him? What will happen to Alistair? 

The muk holds him in the air like a trophy. Azazel’s head lolls forward, his vision spotty. With a malicious, vengeful grin, the muk reaches a hand up to the zipper at his mouth, gripping it tight. Immediately, ice cold shock rushes through his body. 

Oh, hell no. Never again. 

He swipes the muk’s hand away, slashing at his eyes. The muk bellows in pain, dropping Azazel to cover his face and wail. The moment Azazel hits the ground, the other grimer are upon him. Before one of them can swing a punch at him, he sinks into the ground and dashes past the muk, popping out on the other side. He stumbles forward, his feet uncoordinated, and takes off down the street. 

The Grimer Gang shouts after him, making all sorts of ludicrous threats in an effort to stop him. But now that he’s filled with resolve, they’re far too slow to catch him. He dashes through the Underside, his speed and strength growing with every step. In no time at all, the muk and his lackeys are far behind him, too far to ever catch up. They shake their fists at him and yell curses, turning around and slinking away in defeat. 

Confidence surges through him, and a smile dances on his face. He’s gonna make it. He’s gonna make it off this dirty street and to the Topside, he’s gonna make it to the wedding, he’s gonna make it back to his friends. He’s gonna swoop in and crash the wedding and relish in the general’s huffy, appalled face. He’s gonna make it back to Alistair. 

That thought is so sweet that it takes a hold of his mind and floats into the clouds with it. Which is pretty unfortunate, because he kinda needs that mind when he’s running, so he doesn’t trip and fall like a dumbass. Like, right now. 

His foot snags on a rock, and he goes down hard. It’s worse than just biting dirt. He topples, he tumbles, and he lands in a painful heap. Dirt and scrapes cover him from head to toe, and his wounds from the prison angrily reintroduce themselves. All the aches and sores and shakiness from before hit him like a sledgehammer, striking him with twice the force they had initially. 

He tries to pick himself back up. The ground he’s pushing off of is as stable as jello and just about as solid. Everything is spinning, everything is racing, everything is disoriented and confusing and nauseating. His hands, scratched and weak, tremble as he tries to rise. Drops of ichor fall to the ground. 

This is it. He’s not gonna make it. 

Slumping to the floor, he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of nothing but defeat. He thinks of the people he let down, his mom, his dad, all his people at Beggar’s Hole, and he thinks of how the general will never fall because no one will be there to push him. He thinks of Gunnora, Felicia, Fulk, and the kids. He even thinks about Officer Nigel and Muriel and Adallinda. 

He thinks of Alistair. 

He thinks of Alistair, locked away and forced with the general for the rest of his life. He thinks of Alistair finding no company in anyone ever again but his books, reading those fairy tales and romances and longing for them to be true. He thinks of Alistair: alone, afraid. 

He opens his eyes. 

****

Those dreaded words leave the priest’s mouth. 

“Alistair Laurembert, do you take General Thurston Rambugnon III to be your lawfully wedded husband?” 

A hush sweeps over the crowd. He can feel them lean forward, he can feel their eyes bore expectantly into him. They’re waiting for the cherished ‘I do’. The general has already spoken his, and the crowd basked in it like it was a glimpse of heaven. They fawned over it so intensely, those few who had seen his cut have entirely forgotten the offense. 

His eyes meet the general’s. They both know what he will say. He will give the crowd their ‘I do’, because it is in his oath. He recalls how Azazel criticized him for ruining his life over a contract. Now, Alistair has no life to ruin. 

He opens his mouth. “I—” 

“—Do fucking not!” 

Appalled cries and gasps rise up from the crowd, everyone turning down the aisle to face the intruder. Before Alistair can catch a glimpse of them, they disappear into the shadows, darting towards him and leaping out to steal him away from the altar. 

Another round of outcries erupt, but Alistair is spinning too fast to bother with them. Swept away from the general, wrapped up in a familiar pair of arms, Alistair completely surrenders himself when he is kissed deeply. 

****

Yeah, Azazel’s sore. Yeah, he’s got injuries everywhere. Should he be at a hospital right now? Probably! But right now, none of that matters. His mind is dizzy, but not from pain—from pleasure. 

Alistair’s in his arms, still unmarried, and is kissing him. His lips are as soft as he remembers, and sweeter than ever. The whole universe seems to disappear, like they’re in a world of their own. Even the frightful utterings from the wedding guests don’t bother him. It just tells him that word of his death must’ve gotten around. Death that he escaped just to be right here, right now, kissing Alistair. When he breaks away from the most satisfying kiss in the history of ever, an amused and endeared smile tugs on his face. Alistair is staring up at him, incredibly still, with stars in his eyes. 

This glorious haze doesn’t last long. He snaps out of it as soon as he sees a purple dust on his hand. He traces it back to Alistair’s cheek, where he’d been cupping his face, and sees powdered cosmetics concealing something. 

A wound?

Gingerly, Azazel reaches out and brushes his fingers against the injury. Somewhere between fear and anger, he asks, “Did he do this to you?” 

Alistair stares at him a moment longer, as if in a trance. 

“I, um,” he stammers, his hand fluttering up to his own cheek. “Yes, he…” 

A loud, booming voice orders, “Azazel, away from my groom.” 

Azazel releases Alistair, but doesn’t move away from him. Instead, he urges Alistair behind him as the general marches toward them. 

“Don’t call him that,” Azazel hisses, venom dripping in his words. “Not after you hit him!” 

“I said away, Azazel.” 

“Don’t take another step towards him!” 

"You really are a constant thorn in my side, do you know this?” The general demands, his gait undeterred. “No matter what I do, I can’t quite seem to get rid of you.” 

The general reaches out as if to grab Alistair. Before he can lay a hand on him, Azazel slashes at his face. He recoils just before being hit, scowling, then swipes an arm out to snatch Azazel’s wrist. 

Before they explode into another duel right there at the altar, Alistair jumps between them and shouts, “Enough! No more, both of you!”

The only reason Azazel doesn’t tear the general apart right now is because Alistair holds him back. General Thurston keeps himself poised, glaring down at him. 

“This bastard,” Azazel seethes, pointing an accusing finger at the general, “Fucking killed me.”

Gasps of disbelief arise from the crowd. Or, maybe it’s not disbelief, but indignation. At him. He’s not exactly a fan favorite among the rich, especially not the general’s wedding guests. His accusation is probably more offensive than shocking to them. One of them stands—Eustace, the pompous swalot who owns the art gallery in town—and skewers him with a look. 

“You are nothing but a liar, a thief, and a cuckholder!” Eustace spits, enraged. “The entirety of the general’s stay, you have done nothing but disgrace him. And now you want us to believe another one of your lies?” 

Loud, angry voices rise up from the crowd like pitchforks and knives. And none of them are coming to his defense. 

“It’s true,” Alistair declares, as if it’ll make a difference. The voices only grow louder, with vehement shouts of ‘whore’. Alistair tries to speak over them. “I was there, and I witnessed—”

The mob shouts over him, enraged and vicious, like a feral pack of dogs. Their eyes burn with bloodthirst. And if Azazel’s not mistaken, they’re closing in. Putting an arm in front of Alistair, he pushes him away from the crowd that snarls at them ravenously.

“I—I can attest!” 

They all turn to see Pepin flutter nervously up to the altar. His eyes flick anxiously between the crowd, the general, and Azazel, as if any one of them might attack. His feathers tousled and his stance jittery, he states, “I’ve worked in the general’s estate for a long time, and he has always been secretive, as if he’s hiding something. But it wasn’t until this morning that I discovered what that is: he ordered the Beggar’s Hole Massacre.” 

Somehow, Pepin’s revelation manages to shush the boiling crowd. Perhaps it stuns them into silence from sheer audacity. Or, perhaps, they stop to listen because something inside them knows: the general is a polished apple rotten to the core. 

“I overheard him discussing what he did with Master Alistair, after I served them their tea,” Pepin continues. He flitters away from Savaric and Grimald when they make a motion to silence him. “He confessed to it all: even to trying to have Azazel killed by a ditto clan. He—he struck Alistair.” 

It’s as if Pepin tied them all up and gagged them. Every mouth is hung open, speechless, and every pair of eyes are wide. To further prove Pepin’s point, Alistair wipes the cosmetics off his face and reveals the cut on his cheek. Gasps erupt from the townsfolk, but the wedding guests simply cover their mouths and mutter behind their hands. 

Again, it’s Eustace who retaliates with a rebuttal. “You are honestly asking us to believe a thief, a whore, and a servant over General Thurston? He’s an esteemed war hero and a great service to our nation. He has tenfold the credibility of you all combined!” 

It’s the townsfolk who seem unfazed by Eustace’s words, all climbing on board to condemn the general to justice. But the rich wedding guests, they eat his words up. Bit by bit, they return to their steadfast denial and irritable resentment. Their angry cries for their own justice resume with a fury, calling for Azazel to be executed and Alistair to be disgraced and all sorts of creative forms of torture. But above all that, they’re demanding one thing: 

“Where’s the proof?!” 

In terms of hard, concrete evidence, Azazel has nothing. All he has is his word, and that will never be enough for the people who worship the ground the general walks on. Alistair opens his mouth and closes it, floundering, as if scrambling to find something to say. Savaric and Grimald advance on them, slowly, like creatures of prey. Pepin is starting to look like he wished he hadn’t said a word. 

“There is no proof,” General Thurston proclaims, shaking his head. He casts a sorrowful expression on his face, as if hurt and betrayed that anyone would ever utter such detestable things about him. The wedding guests buy into every drop of it. “There is no proof, because it is not true. They only wish to tear me down with lies.” 

He maintains his downcast facade until he turns to Azazel and Alistair, his back facing the guests. His eyes are dark and his expression is stony. Harsh. Wicked. 

“But it will not work,” he declares, his eyes alight like a volcano. “This is the end of the road for you two.” 

Alistair clutches his arm. Azazel looks left and right, searching for a way out. They’ve been backed up to the cliff’s edge and the only way forward is through the general. With the condition he’s in, there’s no way he could float long enough over the cliff or even shove the general aside. 

“As I said, Azazel,” the general says, motioning for Savaric and Grimald to seize them, “Away from my groom.” 

The colonels advance. Azazel stands his ground and braces himself for a fight. He might die for real this time, but he sure as hell isn’t going to go down easy. 

Before they can even be at an arm’s length from him, a voice cuts through the chaos: “I can prove it.” 

Everyone stops. Everyone holds their breath. Everyone turns, wide-eyed, to face Skystead’s resident veteran, dojo master, and innkeeper as he steps up to the altar. 

“I can prove it,” Fulk says, his eyes determined and grim. “I can prove the general committed the Beggar’s Hole Massacre.” 

Frightful utterances rise up from the audience, regarding Fulk with a mix of reverence and hesitation. Even Eustace is grudgingly slapped into silence. No one can argue with the credibility of a war hero like Fulk. 

“You wish to defend something so wholly untrue?” General Thurston demands, narrowing his eyes at Fulk. “I strongly advise you against it. I cannot express how deeply that will affect your reputation. Or your family’s.” 

“You can’t intimidate me with that anymore,” Fulk argues, barely offering the general a glance. “The military will never keep me from doing what’s right. Never again.” 

Turning to the rows of guests and townsfolk, Fulk announces, “If you’re all willing to listen to the truth, I will give it to you right now: 

“I was a soldier at the time of the Beggar’s Hole Massacre, and I worked directly under General Thurston. I had just achieved the rank of colonel, which I had coveted for so long, but only a month later, I resigned and moved my family here to Skystead. What I had been forced to do under orders was immoral and corrupt, and it urged me out of the military for good. 

“I can confirm that General Thurston was at the site of the massacre. I can confirm that General Thurston was responsible for the massacre. Because I was there.

“I was at the Beggar’s Hole Massacre when it happened,” Fulk declares amidst the scandalized gasps of the crowd, “We had been ordered, by the general, to kill everyone because they were terrorists. But when we got there, I saw they were only people: innocent men, women, and children. I tried to have the attack called off. But the general insisted to see it through, and he did. He killed everyone.

“Both the military and my own shame bound me to silence. There were times when I wanted to reveal everything, but if I did, I knew my family would be targeted. But it’s clear that I can’t stay silent any longer. The general has done more to hurt my family in this past month than I thought possible. So, I won’t be silent anymore. I will do everything in my power to ensure he gets exactly what’s coming to him.

“As for proof,” Fulk concludes, “He detailed every day of the campaign in a journal. If you find that journal, you will have your proof.” 

Silence sweeps over the people. They stare, with a hundred, unblinking, beady eyes, as if they’re entire world is spinning. Azazel understands that feeling. He’s got it right now; no matter what he does, he can’t shake the revelation from his head: Fulk was there. 

His testimony is compelling. He has a stand-up reputation among the townsfolk, even among the rich wedding guests he catered to for weeks at his inn. They’re much less inclined to throw his words in the trash too quickly. Even Eustace seems hesitant to jump to the general’s defense at this point. 

“This is utterly ridiculous,” General Thurston scoffs, too ruffled to bother with his sympathetic disguise. “Will you all believe a disgruntled former subordinate? Will you all believe a thief and my unfaithful lover? All of them have clear motivations to see me torn down.” 

Apprehensive, uncertain murmuring trickles through the crowd. They don’t seem eager to put full faith in the general, but they seem even less eager to put faith in the other side. 

“Besides,” the general adds, “Even if I had written everything about this massacre I supposedly took part in, my journal is nowhere to be found. Likely, it has been tossed out without me realizing it. There is no physical proof.” 

The journal? 

The journal he stole? 

That has the proof? 

“I knew that would be a bomb-ass thing to steal!” Azazel exclaims, snapping his fingers excitedly. The townsfolk look at him in surprise. Officer Nigel narrows his eyes, as if adding to his conspiracy billboard in his head. “I mean… if I were a thief. Just a fun little thought experiment. You guys don’t ever think about that stuff?” 

He’s met with nothing but blank stares. Alistair tugs on his arm, directing his attention to him. 

“My love, do you know where the journal is?” 

He looks around, surveying the wedding flowers that adorn the site. There’s dozens of flowerpots, but only one that he cares about. There: the one with the slightly chipped rim. The one he hid the journal in. He races to it, thrusts his hand inside, and pulls it triumphantly out. 

Cracking it open, he flies through the pages in search of the date. A little over fifteen years ago, sometime in the spring. As he searches, Alistair, Gunnora, and her family surround him, leaning forward with bated breath to await the verdict. 

The writing grows more faded and worn the further back he turns. He can only hope that the writing is not so faint as to be illegible. Whipping past every page, his eyes dart around for any mention of his home or his people. 

“There!” Fulk says, pressing a finger firmly to the page. 

Aloud, Alistair reads, “Beggar’s Hole is a plague on this entire island. The only way for Bloomfield Island to achieve an excellent reputation is for this stain to be wiped out. I will do what must be done: I will destroy that wretched place, and all the people who live there.” 

Azazel only stares at the words a moment longer before snapping the journal shut. Holding it high above his head, he opens it to the inside cover, revealing the words etched inside for all the crowd to see. 

'Journal of General Thurston Rambugnon III.'

Icy dread seems to trickle down the collective crowd’s spines. They all look at each other, silent. Then, they all look at the general. The general looks back. 

“Now, now,” General Thurston laughs lightly, a hint of anxiety in his tone. Savaric and Grimald look as tense as he sounds. “There is all a very good explanation for this.” 

The people look back to each other. They don’t say a word, they just speak with their eyes. And all their eyes are grim, and all their eyes are angry. 

“Who’s to say that journal isn’t faked?” The general asks, clearly grasping at straws. Savaric and Grimald are already braced to defend. “I wouldn't put it past their wicked schemes—would you?” 

Slowly, the crowd turns their dark gazes back to the general. They glower at him with a loathing unlike anything Azazel’s ever seen. Probably unlike anything the general’s ever seen, either. The general looks around, seeing his pristine, god-like reputation being torn down, with only his villainous colonels by his side. Resolved and steadfast, the mob takes a collective step towards General Thurston. 

The general takes an instinctive step back. “Let’s discuss this, like civilized people.” 

Another step forward. 

Another step back. “I’m sure if you sat down and listened to me, you’d all understand.” 

Another step forward.

Another step back, hastily recorrected. The general is on the cliff’s edge, a hair’s width away from plummeting to the rocky shore below. 

He protests, “Surely, my reputation should speak for itself!” 

“Your reputation has gone to shit,” Azazel states, locking with his gaze. “Just like you.” 

As if he’d rallied the town with a heart wrenching, moving speech, they all erupt into shouts of vigor and cries for blood. Foregoing the patient prowl of a step-by-step approach, they swarm the general with raving fury. Savaric and Grimald apparently have limits on their loyalty, because as soon as the general is bumped precariously close to the edge, they bolt the scene so that they’re not next. Some townsfolk chase after them. 

Bellowing and yelling clamor through the crowd, striking the air with pangs of rage and betrayal. Fiery, irate, and livid, the collection of wedding guests and townspeople begin to push and shove the general closer and closer to the cliffside. 

Officer Nigel races to the scene, trying to deescalate the situation, but he’s too late. They’re already overcome with fury, and their eyes already burn with a desire for vengeance. Their god let them down, and they’re angry. 

The general’s back heel is off the edge. 

Alistair reaches out to stop the raging mob, but Azazel pulls him back. Holding him close and burying Alistair’s face in his neck, he says, “Don’t look.” 

Like a building wave, the crowd looms over the general and strikes down on him. Overwhelmed and alone at the cliffside, the general cries, “I am your general—!”

His foot slips. 

It happens fast after that, so fast that Azazel can only hear him scream for an instant and he could barely see who got the final push. But he did see, and even if he’s interrogated about it for hours, he’ll never spill. He’s glad he kept Alistair’s eyes off the scene, because he knows Alistair would have to tell the truth about what he saw: and he’s pretty sure neither of them want to see Gunnora go down for having the final push. 

When Alistair’s head shoots back up, he whirls to face the cliffside. Seeing the general gone, he stares at the open sky for a long, long moment, as if he can’t process what just happened. Then, weakly, he utters, “It’s over.” 

“It’s over,” Azazel agrees. 

“My contract,” Alistair says, turning to Azazel. His eyes are wide and mixed with emotion. “It’s over.” 

He can’t help the smile that tugs on his face. “It’s over.” 

A laugh escapes Alistair, like an exhale of relief. A flood of tears slip down his face as if he’s been holding them in for years, and he laughs through them. Throwing his arms around Azazel’s neck, he presses dozens of butterfly kisses to his face.

It’s over. It’s all over. 

As much as Azazel would love to enjoy being kissed senseless, his head is having a hard time not spinning. The aches and pains from a week of torture are returning to him with a fury, making his brain fuzzy. Also, he’s had a weird few hours. Like, he discovered his parents’ killer, his own would-be killer, a military cover-up, he died, came back to life, crashed a wedding, discovered Fulk was part of said massacre, and watched the general die. Probably somewhere in the top five for craziest days he’s had. 

“Babydoll,” he says, gently pulling Alistair off him. “I love you so much and I totally want you to keep doing what you’re doing, but I think I’m about to pass out.” 

“What?” 

He doesn’t get a chance to respond, because he immediately follows through with his prediction. 

****

He wakes up. 

Sunshine pours through the open window, and a gentle summer breeze caresses the pale yellow curtains. The air is warm and calm. From outside, the melodious, bubbling song of children laughing and running through the streets floats to him. The blankets around him are an odd mix of soft yet scratchy. It’s not in anyway uncomfortable, though. It’s almost homey. 

He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and sink into the pillow and allow the rest of the day to drift by. But there’s a smell of fresh baked cookies wafting from downstairs and a taste of the salty ocean in the air that’s too good to miss. Sleeping would be nice. But living this moment would be so much better. 

As his eyes flutter between sleep and consciousness, he slowly finds the ability to move. He shifts slightly, dull aches and pains with every motion, but they’re offset by the plush mattress beneath him. With great effort, he forces himself fully awake. 

There’s a few things he notices, right off the bat. He’s at the inn, which is an odd choice, because he probably should be at the hospital. But his wounds have been dressed and there’s medical equipment all around him, so he’s clearly gotten the attention he needs. Then, there’s the things he notices immediately after, like the ridiculous amount of people in the room. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters, forcing himself to sit up. Officer Nigel, the librarians, the medics, the merchants, and a dozen more people fill the inn room. Gunnora and her family surround the bed, with Alistair seated by his side. When he stirs, their attention instantly shifts to him. “Wow, guys. Have you just been watching me sleep? Little weird, not gonna lie.” 

“Thank goodness you are awake,” Alistair utters, relieved. He’s holding Azazel’s hand. “You had me worried sick. I had begun to wonder if you would ever wake.” 

A grin tugs on his face. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading! But the story isn't done yet, so don't forget to tune in next week for the epilogue!


	15. Epilogue

Azazel is really good at stealing. Really, really good, and he enjoys it, too. But he’s a month clean and counting, and the itch to steal hasn’t made itself known yet. Who would’ve thought quitting one passion would be so much easier when there was a better one to take its place?

“How’s Alistair?” Felicia asks, packing his arms full of cookie boxes. She’s been giving him twice the normal amount, lately. 

“He’s great,” Azazel replies, setting the broom down to take the cookies. “You know, you don’t have to give us all these.”

“It’s a special thank you for working so hard and helping at the inn.”

“It’s my job. It’s what you pay me for.”

“Just take the cookies,” she laughs, ushering them into his hands. 

Since taking a job at the inn, Azazel’s gotten a lot more cookies. His house is practically bursting with cookie boxes. He’s got no idea what to do with them. He throws some of them at people who pass by sometimes, just for fun. But never at Pepin, who delivers the mail every morning. He already threw a cookie at him as a servant, he doesn’t need to throw one at him as a mail carrier. 

Waving Felicia goodbye, he steps out of the inn and looks out on the town. It looks the same as it always has, and yet, it feel so different. 

When Azazel steps onto the porch, he sees Fulk sweeping. Fulk looks up, sees him, and waves as if they’re strangers. Fulk’s kept himself at a careful, respectful distance from Azazel since he revealed what he’d been a part of. There isn’t really a need for it; Azazel doesn’t hold it against him and he doesn’t need to adjust. But maybe Fulk does, so Azazel leaves it be. He’s not worried about it. He knows they’ll be fine. 

He steps down off the porch, making his way to the street. The wedding decorations have long since been ripped down—since the very day of the wedding, in fact. After the town mobbed Savaric and Grimald and practically booted them across the ocean back home, they ran through the town and tore everything down and burned it. Azazel would’ve liked to have seen it. Gunnora says it was like the whole town was ablaze. 

Speaking of Gunnora, she’s around town a lot more instead of at the fort. She’s been busy promoting a revision of the soldier’s code of arms, to replace their utmost duty to the state with an utmost duty to the people. She wants to show how one soldier in the right place can make a difference. So, she’s been home, helping wherever she can. Right now, she hops off a ladder leaned against a building, where she’s been helping an elderly couple fix a roof on their house. As he walks by, she waves enthusiastically at him. There’s paint on her nose. 

He waves back, tossing a box of cookies to her. On second thought, he tosses one to the elderly couple, too. The old man fumbles with it, then drops it gracelessly. Gunnora tries to stifle her laughter, but a chorus of snickers and snorts escape her. She’s been a lot happier, he’s noticed, since she stopped trying to be the General 2.0. 

He passes a dozen or so more friendly faces on his way home. Muriel gives him a curt nod, and Adallinda tosses him a bedazzling smile. Pepin flutters by, a satchel stuffed with mail along his side, and waves a wing at Azazel before taking off. Officer Nigel tips his hat to him but still squints at him with the slightest suspicion, and Azazel returns his look with a pleasant smile. It does give him a little bit of antagonistic glee to know that Nigel will never catch him. In fact, no one will. Because from here on out, he’s no longer the thief of Skystead. He’s just Azazel. 

As he travels along the road, he grows further and further from the center of town. He’s going home. He passes the underside. He passes the General’s old estate, now vacated and torn to the ground. All the other buildings and homes begin to disappear as he walks down the slope, the high cliffside gently settling towards the sea. And there, in a private, magical little realm of its own, stands a quaint seaside cottage. He walks up the stone steps, fishes out his keys, and opens the door. 

A small fire is crackling in the fireplace. It warms the room like a heartbeat and melts down to his core. A soft sigh is drawn out of him, a content, peaceful sigh, and he sets his bag on a hook by the door. On the loveseat, in front of the fire, Alistair sits and writes. He’s finally starting publishing his writing, and as Azazel suspected, he’s become an incredible hit. One of his plays is even going to be put on at the theater. It’s the only stuffy rich play he’ll ever be excited to see. 

Whenever he comes home to see Alistair like this, he can’t help but stop in the doorway and breathe it all in. The flickering fire cascades warmth across his satin skin, and Azazel imagines kissing him would be like kissing the moon, with all the sun’s rays soaked up in its beautiful, porcelain skin. He steps closer, silently, so that he won’t have to imagine any longer. 

Stooping down, he bends over the back of the loveseat to press a quick kiss to Alistair’s cheek. Alistair perks up, turning to face him just as Azazel floats through the couch on the other side. Alistair looks around for a long, confused moment, and Azazel sits beside him and waits for him to figure it out. When he finally turns to Azazel, he blinks in surprise. Then, he smiles. 

“There you are,” he says, leaning forward to kiss him. Azazel gladly accepts, cupping his face between his hands. They break away, and Alistair asks, “How was work?” 

“Good,” he replies, “But it’d be better if you were there, doll.” 

“I cannot spend all my time at the inn. Besides, you are rather distracted from your duty when I am there.” 

“You’re no fun,” he grins, wrapping his arms around Alistair. Alistair huffs, but returns the embrace. “Come on and kiss me.” 

He does. And it’s splendid, and blissful, and wholly wonderful. 

“You know,” he begins, stroking Alistair’s cheek. “I think you must be the thief, because you’ve stolen my heart.” 

Alistair frowns. “I am… no such thing. I resent the insinuation that I would ever unlawfully seize anyone’s property—” 

Azazel laughs, kissing him. And that’s how they remain for the night, curled up on the loveseat, snuggling by the fire, kissing each other. And this is how they will remain for the rest of their days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who read my story! It was a fantastic journey and experience for me, and I hope you feel the same way. It's kinda a bittersweet feeling to end this story, as it's the first serious thing I've published, but I'm glad that it's complete! If you liked it, please keep an eye out for me, as I plan to continue to create. Thank you so much, and much love to all!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you're enjoying the story so far. If you like it, I'll be posting every Thursday, so be sure to tune in then. 
> 
> Thanks!


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